Torn
by LadyBush
Summary: When Saxons infiltrate the camp looking for Arthur, Lancelot is captured in his stead. Upon the discovery of their mistake, Lancelot is raped. How will the knights cope with this? SLASH.
1. Like Shadows In The Night

Summary: The night after the battle on the ice, Lancelot is captured by the Saxons and brutally raped. Following Lancelot's rescue, the knights are left to deal with the repercussions of an event entirely beyond their reckoning and initially only Tristan is prepared to confront the reality of what has happened.

Rating: PG-13, possibly going up to R (a soft R)

Warning: Slash and non-con (Lancelot's rape is not graphic), AU

Pairing: Lancelot/Tristan, eventual Lancelot/Arthur

**Torn**

"There's a large number of lonely men out there," Lancelot said, smiling.

"Don't worry. I won't let them rape you," Guinevere replied.

**Chapter One**

The night was cold and there were footsteps in the darkness; footsteps that were so quiet, Lancelot could scarcely believe he had heard them at all.

Then a sudden gust of wind rose blocking out the sound.

Lancelot sat up, his back against a tree, and peered into the darkness. His ears strained to hear above the wind but there was nothing. Lancelot shook his head. Nights like these instilled fear into a man's heart, making him jumpy. He relaxed marginally. There was a root beneath his left thigh that was starting to hurt but as he moved to shift his bodyweight, he heard it again.

Footsteps.

He froze for a moment, then his right hand settled on the hilt of his dagger. He moved it slowly from its sheaf, trying to keep the metallic scraping sound to a minimum. And then he waited.

"It is a night from hell," said Arthur. He clapped a friendly hand to Lancelot's shoulder then growled softly in surprise as a dagger appeared at his throat and pressed firmly into the skin there. The blade was so cold it burned his skin. "If you'd refrain from killing me, I thought we might talk."

Lancelot moved the dagger and laughed softly. "Your pardon," he said. It was necessary to talk loudly just to be heard above the raging wind.

Arthur shook his head and sat down. "It is I who should ask _your _pardon. I knew you would not be sleeping; I did not know you would be so watchful."

"Jumpy," Lancelot corrected. He would not have admitted that to any man other than Arthur.

"This night..." Arthur gestured round with his hands. "...Makes men jumpy. The sentries have already alerted me twice of the presence of Saxons in these woods."

"And?"

"A badger," said Arthur with a smile. "And a squirrel. Dangerous foes, indeed."

Lancelot smiled back. A companionable silence followed in which he found himself relaxing for the first time since this afternoon's battle. "What is it you want to talk about?" he asked eventually, sensing his leader had more important things to discuss than badgers and dark nights.

"Guinevere."

"Ahhhhh..." said Lancelot, once again becoming uneasy.

Arthur looked at him intently; although the darkness made it doubtful that he could see Lancelet's exact expression. "What do you think of her?" he asked.

It was a difficult question to answer. It would take a blind man not to see how Arthur felt about the Woad girl and Lancelot certainly did not want to offend his leader and oldest friend. He said nothing.

"You have something to say but you fear to say it."

Lancelot came to a decision. "I like her..." he said. "...But I do not trust her."

Arthur nodded, even though he did not like Lancelot's words. "That is all I wished to know, my friend." Once more, he clapped a hand to Lancelot's armour-plated shoulder. "This place is well watched. You should sleep if you can."

"And you?"

"I shall find no rest until we are behind Hadrian's Wall. Safe." The last word was added as an afterthought. Arthur disappeared back into the night.

After an interminable period of staring into the darkness, the talisman given to him by his family held tight in a frozen fist, Lancelot slept.

* * *

The Saxons came like shadows in the night: there were three of them. They came in the deepest, stillest time of night, four hours before the cold light of a winter dawn pierced the valley. The sentries did not see them.

"Split up," whispered one of the Saxons. He held a long knife before him and seemed nervous. "Remember: an armoured knight, tall with dark hair... Do not let yourself be seen or we are all dead men..."

The youngest of the Saxons, a battle-axe firmly in his right hand, searched the outskirts of the camp. He had little hope of finding Arthur, who he imagined would be sound asleep in the very heart of the camp. He ignored two men who were clearly not knights and one man who was: a huge man with little hair; his snores sounded like thunder even above the howling wind.

The Saxon came to the edge of the camp. His job was done and he was relieved to leave the enemy camp unsighted.

Something caught his eye as the moon emerged from behind cloud.

He turned and found himself staring at a dark-haired, armoured knight. He almost grinned because it was so easy. He crept up to the knight and with a sudden movement pressed his axe to the man's neck. "Are you Arthur?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

But Lancelot stared at the Saxon defiantly. "I am Arthur," he answered.

A second later the handle of the axe slammed into the side of his head and knocked him unconscious.

* * *

The ground was moving, that was the only explanation for it. An earth tremor, perhaps? But no, this was Britain and such things did not happen here.

Lancelot opened his eyes. It was dark; it must still be night and yet he had the feeling of having slept for hours.

And everything still seemed to be moving.

He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the grogginess of sleep. The pain came like a cauterising iron thrust into an arrow wound. It was pure-white agony in his head. He cried aloud in his shock, then bit down on his lip, hard, to suppress a sob.

Something was very, very wrong. Lancelot reached up a hand to touch his head but stopped halfway. His hands were bound. He felt a peculiar sinking feeling in his stomach that was not lessened even by the fact that the ground had stopped moving. He could remember nothing of his capture.

Suddenly, the world filled with light and he shut his eyes as a new outbreak of pain in his head was felt. "He's awake," said a gruff voice. Lancelot wondered if he was imagining it. "Must have the scull of a boar."

"Better for him if he hadn't woken..." said a softer, more sinister voice. "Cynric will be pleased..." The voice laughed humourlessly and Lancelot dared to open his eyes.

A stab of pain followed and he groaned.

The groan, however, was not solely on account of the pain. Lancelot had realised he was in a covered baggage cart in the same second as he had realised the source of light was from the opened flap at the rear of the cart.

And looking past the two gloating figures standing in the flap, he could see the camp of an entire Saxon army.

The enemy had captured him.

**Tbc...**


	2. The Man With Burning Eyes

Thanks to ShatteredDesire (do try and see the movie!), Oneiriad (I'm an idiot; I managed to type the summary in the title box...easy mistake...) bloomsgurl22 (thanks, I changed the quotes- nice website too), L J Groundwater, deb-sampson, melly, ellennar, Jemuil, S., Demus, Shauna, Stahlfan125, ElvenRager13 and the person who was too lazy to sign in!

**Chapter Two**

The sun rose late the next day. It was still cold, though the wind had died and the only remaining snow lay in thin patches on the ground. A fire was not lit and the only available food for breakfast was two loaves of hard bread given by Arthur to his knights. "Take some to Lancelot," said Arthur, disappearing to organise the refugees into some semblance of order for travelling.

Galahad broke a hard piece of bread off the end of one of the loaves and headed to the edge of camp where he knew Lancelot to have rested. There was nobody there. "Lancelot?" he called softly.

Try as he might, he could not find the knight nor any trace of him, save a carved talisman of a beast amongst the leaves. Galahad recognised it as the one given to Lancelot by his family. After keeping it safe for fifteen years, it did not seem likely that the knight would abandon it now.

He found Arthur instructing a young farm boy on driving a wagon. He cleared his throat and waited for Arthur to finish.

"And where on this earth am I to find Lancelot?" he demanded, once the farm boy has gone. He used an angry tone to hide the concern he was feeling.

The camp was duly searched, everybody was questioned and nobody had seen Lancelot since Arthur, the previous night. Tristan examined the spot where Lancelot had been sleeping. He shook his head a couple of times.

"Well?" asked Arthur, who was beginning to feel unsettled. Galahad had given him Lancelot's talisman, which he clutched tightly in his right fist.

"Footprints. Here and here." Tristan pointed to two patches of faint imprints in the ground. "And look here." He motioned to an empty patch of ground. "It looks as if something was dragged."

Arthur frowned, not liking where this was heading. "Something? What?"

"A body."

Arthur stared at Tristan but the older man's face was unreadable. He was a good scout and an able tracker; he was able to read things in the earth that were invisible to the eyes of other men.

"There's blood there," said Gawain suddenly, pointing at the ground a few feet away from Arthur's feet.

In the end, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn from blood and footprints and a body being dragged. Lancelot had been captured.

* * *

Tristan was sent to track Lancelot's captors as the remaining knights escorted the refugees south to Hadrian's Wall and safety. 

All day long, an uneasy feeling accompanied Arthur. He knew that he had to get the refugees south of the wall and yet the mission that he had given his heart too and paid for with Dagonet's life, seemed so ridiculous now. He rode as rear guard of the roup and yet he was not remostely watchful. He spent the whole journey trying to imagine reasons why Lancelot would be taken.

And only one possibility occurred to him.

Reaching Hadrian's Wall that afternoon did not feel like a homecoming to Arthur. There was no celebrating from his men as they received the releases granted by Rome. Dagonet was dead, Lancelot as well in all likelihood: there were only four knights left in the band. The Round Table was nearly empty; soon it would be abandoned forever.

The prospect of retreating without Lancelot was a foreign one.

Arthur took the paper that granted safe passage to Rome and climbed onto the ramparts of the wall. His eyes searched the lands to the North for a lone rider on a grey horse and sure enough, before a half hour had passed Tristan appeared, galloping from the North East.

Arthur found he could not wait for news and climbed back down from the ramparts as the gate was lifted for Tristan. He took the horse's reins as the knight heaved himself out of the saddle and landed heavily in armour. The dappled mare was blowing hard and the sweat on Tristan's forehead was more than testament to the speed at which the scout had ridden.

"What news?" asked Arthur brusquely.

"Saxons," spat Tristan. "They had three horses and the tracks lead to a cart trail. I think he's with the baggage."

Here at last was a glimmer of hope for Arthur. "Cynric?"

"Yes," Tristan said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. "Cynric is retreating with his surviving men to the main body of Cerdic's army. He'll have reached it by late afternoon."

The glimmer of hope had been extinguished. A well-timed ambush could have defeated Cynric's small band of men after so many had died yesterday on the ice. However, it was impossible that with just five men he could assault an entire Saxon army. Arthur felt a weight settle on his heart as he realised the implications of Tristan's words. Lancelot was lost.

Suddenly, Galahad appeared in the courtyard. He looked as if he had been running. A moment later Gawain appeared, breathing hard as he fought to catch up with the younger man. "Lancelot?" he gasped.

Arthur shook his head. Stray tears blurred his vision and for the first time in his life he turned away from his fellow knights.

"Saxons," said Tristan simply.

"Where?" growled Bors, as he too appeared in the courtyard.

"The Saxons have captured Lancelot," Gawain explained patiently.

Bors shook his head. "Why didn't they kill him? I mean, what use it Lancelot to anybody?" He didn't mean that badly.

Tristan led his horse to the stables. He knew the answer to Bors' question but he would rather leave it to the others to work out. His duty was done for the time being.

"Arthur?"

Arthur turned back to Bors, Galahad and Gawain, the tears now gone from his eyes. "How would you describe me? My appearance, I mean."

"Tall, dark-haired, armoured knight," answered Galahad easily. It took a moment for him to understand the importance of this. "Like Lancelot," he whispered.

Arthur nodded. "They meant to capture me," he said.

_God, how I wish they had, _he added silently.

"Is Lancelot dead?" asked Bors.

Deep down, Arthur knew that he was alive. After all, it must surely be impossible for a man to lose his best friend to the Otherworld and not feel something. "It would be better for him if he were." The statement was accompanied with the image of ropes, stones and hot pokers. The Saxons were brutal. They would torture Lancelot whether they thought him to be Arthur or not.

And once he had been tortured, he would die.

* * *

After battle, they always drank together. It was a tradition. Yet on this day, for the first time, Arthur found he was not ready to face the other knights. 

Instead, as darkness fell, he took a candle and went up to Lancelot's headquarters in the hope of receiving some comfort from the place where Lancelot had lived.

He may have fought beside the man for fifteen years but he had never entered his quarters before: it felt like trespassing. Arthur suppressed a shudder as he crossed the threshold into a surprisingly small room. Looking around, there were few possessions, none that spoke of Lancelot. The room held just a cot, a rough wooden stool with several tunics draped over the top, and a whittling knife on top of a carved box with a crude iron lock. There was a grate but little sign that a fire had been lit in recent times.

Arthur searched for any sign that the room had belonged to Lancelot but he could not see one, save for the carvings on the box, which depicted a battle. He tested the lock on the box, feeling guilty as he did so. The lock held firm and Arthur abandoned it to sit on the edge of the cot. The mattress was stuffed with hay and smelt damp. Glancing at the ceiling he saw a crack between stone, from which water would drip as it rained.

"My friend," he murmured softly. The lack of personal possessions surprised him. Lancelot had owned fine armour and an expensive horse. He had dispensed coins freely amongst the poor. It was a shock to see the spartan room in which he had lived for so long.

Had Lancelot called this barren place 'home'? He doubted it. Home for Lancelot had been somewhere far away: a distant half-memory after all these years abroad.

Perching on the end of the cot, Arthur set his candle down on the floor and settled his head in his hands. The dull ache of before, the weight on his heart, was growing and he could identify it now: grief, masquerading as emptiness. For now he knew that Lancelot was lost: if not to the living world then to him. And he really did feel empty. He remembered his last conversation with Lancelot. It had been about Guinevere; he wished it had not been. If anything, Arthur would have liked to say thank you for friendship and loyalty.

He would not have said goodbye. There had been too many partings in the past years and all of them sad. Thank you would have been the thing to say.

Friendship and loyalty didn't really cover it, though. Yes, Lancelot had been a friend and yes, he had been loyal. He had also been so much more to Arthur: a comrade, a brother in all but blood, an extension of his own sword arm, the man he would want fighting on his right flank in battle, the man who could make him laugh at the darkest moments, the man who had once cut an arrow-head from Arthur's own shoulder with a hunting knife, the man who would watch his back in a fight, one of the few men he would not have been ashamed to weep in front of, a disciple, _his_ knight and the man he would gladly have sacrificed his own life for.

Above all, Lancelot had possessed eyes that, when angry, had burned into his soul.

Arthur took his head from his hands and swiped at a stray tear.

He did not see her standing in the doorway. "I know how much he meant to you."

"What is it you want?" he asked Guinevere.

She gave him a gentle smile. She was still wearing the blue gown of yesterday's battle. "I want to tell you not to throw away your grief on tears."

"And what would you have me do?"

For her, the answer was simple. Grief must be turned into anger. "Seek revenge," she told him earnestly. "Join us."

He stared at her. His candle had all but died in the damp air and the light it cast was not warm. _I like her, _Lancelot had said,_ but I do not trust her._

"No," he said. Lancelot had not trusted her; that was good enough for him.

Her voice was soft as moonlight. "You will, perhaps, change your mind."

He doubted it. Sitting now in Lancelot's room, on his bed, on the hard, damp mattress, Arthur felt the loss of Lancelot more acutely than he had ever imagined possible. He would not now fight alongside Woads after he and Lancelot had risked death a thousand times to kill them. Guinevere too, held little attraction. She was beautiful certainly: beautiful as ice is very beautiful but not enough so to stop a freezing man craving fire.

"Go away," he said softy. He felt no regret after he had said it. What was she compared to the friend he had lost?

"What?"

"Go back to your fellows. I do not wish to see you again." His voice was cold.

She left quickly after that but he remained where he was for a long time. The candle died, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts and his grief.

* * *

After perhaps an hour of sitting there, Arthur forced himself to face the company of his fellow knights. He found Bors, Galahad and Gawain (the latter two being virtually inseparable) sitting in the corner and drinking rather half-heartedly. He cast his eyes round for Tristan but the knight was not there. It was no real surprise: the oldest knight was always something of an outsider, even now when there was so few of them left. 

Arthur got himself a brimming tankard and joined the three men. It was strange that the tavern, so full of noise, could seem so silent to the four as they sat round a table and made a start at drinking themselves into oblivion.

Bors raised his tankard of ale. "To the victorious dead." He drank once then raised his tankard again. "To Dagonet!"

"Dagonet!" echoed Galahad, Gawain and Arthur.

Bors looked around at the faces if his fellow knights: he saw Gawain's sadness etched plainly in his face and the wild angry madness of Galahad that was his way of dealing with grief. It was Arthur that worried him. The expression on his leader's face was distant as if he were in another world entirely.

_Another world_.

Bors shook his head as tears threatened his eyes. He gulped down some ale and the lifted his tankard for the third and last time. "To Lancelot!"

"Lancelot!" chorused Gawain and Galahad. They were all fully aware of the hopelessness of Lancelot's situation. If he were not dead yet he soon would be. Arthur, however, did not drink the toast.

Bors cleared his throat. "Long may the deeds of Dagonet and Lance-"

"He is not dead yet." Arthur's voice was quiet, possibly a little hoarse, but filled with certainty. He had come to a decision.

None of the other knights said a word as Arthur rose and left the tavern. They didn't say a word; but they did follow him.

He found Tristan in the stables, feeding his hawk scraps of stew and his horse chunks of turnip.

"I have been thinking," said Tristan conversationally as Arthur entered.

"So have I and-" He trailed off, unsure how to formulate his plan into words: a plan, moreover, that was built on little more than grief and madness.

Tristan finished feeding his hawk. He cast it off and it flew to the rafters of the stable. "It is impossible to assault an army with five men," he said. "But it is possible for one man, perhaps, to infiltrate the ranks."

Arthur stared. He was not the only one to have contemplated a rescue attempt.

"You too think Lancelot is alive."

Tristan shrugged.

"And you will attempt a rescue." They may all be battle-tested knights but Tristan was the only one with the ability to move silently, unseen.

Tristan shrugged again. "If you wish it, I will do it."

Arthur nodded and knew that he could not abandon Lancelot to torture and death. "We shall ride in one hour."

"And were you planning to tell us or were you just going to ride?" said Bors, ducking his head to pass through the stable door. Galahad and Gawain followed him.

Arthur bowed to his knights and wondered if he had planned to leave without saying goodbye. "You have your passages to Rome now," he said.

"Aye," growled Bors. "We're going home." He grinned at the others. "And we're taking Lancelot with us!"

"Tristan is the only one going into the camp," Arthur warned.

But the others were resolute. "If all we can do is provide an escort then we shall do it."

"There is little hope," said Arthur softly.

"There is always hope," Gawain replied staunchly.

Arthur nodded and this time didn't turn away as tears once again came to his eyes.

"And hope makes the impossible achievable, my lord," said Gawain. He received a look from Arthur who was rarely addressed by his knights as 'my lord'.

And so five knights set off on the rescue mission at the same time that, miles away in the midst of a Saxon army, Cynric discovered he had not, in fact, captured Arthur. The anger bubbling within Cynric was all-consuming as he went to a baggage cart in which a bloodied knight was bound and trussed.

He would make that knight suffer.

**Tbc...**


	3. A Dream In A Nightmare

Thanks to L J Groundwater, Stahlfan125, Demus, Shauna, deb-sampson, Shattered Desire, Goody (I thought Tristan looked the oldest; although I thought he was the most attractive too!), sf, GaBo0 (Tristan had dark hair and a hawk), disassociated, Jemuil and Squallsgurlygurl.

Warning: Rape- it's not exactly graphic but it's there. If anyone wants to read the aftermath of the rape only, I advise they skip this chapter.

**Chapter Three**

It was dusk before he was summoned.

The guards that delivered him to Cerdic smelt vile. In actual fact, the whole bloody camp stank. There were warriors everywhere: warriors dressed in filthy rags and carrying huge, clumsy, ill-balanced axes and swords that looked more like butcher's cleaving blades. The guards that led him towards a tent, the only tent in sight, wrenched his arms (already bound behind him) so far behind his back that Lancelot feared his shoulders would snap.

Inside the tent, which itself was filthy, stood a huge man with long tatters of fair hair hanging past his shoulders. He had an appearance of power that made it clear from the first that this was the great Cerdic, famed for his brutality.

"You're Arthur?" demanded the Saxon warlord.

And this was Lancelot's moment of triumph that would make all the pain and the humiliation and his ultimate death worthwhile. It felt good and for a moment the fear in his heart was forgotten. "No," he said, grinning insanely.

A vein throbbed in the Saxon's temple. Anger radiated from him: pure, simple anger. Dangerous anger. "And who exactly do I have the honour to meet?"

"Lancelot."

He was still grinning as Cerdic's huge fist slammed into his chest. And as the second followed and then the third.

He stopped grinning after that.

"Bring Cynric to me," Cerdic said, once Lancelot lay before him, retching painfully on the ground.

* * *

His hands were still bound behind his back; bound so tightly that he had long since ceased to feel them. He was back in the cloth-covered baggage cart.

Back in his prison.

Lancelot forced himself to take an inventory of all his injuries: the head wound that had first knocked him unconscious, the bruising covering his entire body and the burns on his wrists from the rope that bound his hands. Lancelot considered each wound. His head felt like it had been cloven in two with a blunt axe and he felt vaguely dizzy but he had the nasty suspicion that the blow to the head would not kill him. It was unlikely too that the bruising would send him to his death: nobody died of bruising alone. And the rope burns round his wrists were rendered rather pathetic in comparison with the other things he had suffered.

There was the other wound, of course, but he didn't like to think of that. He felt dirty enough without thinking of it.

Lancelot was hungry and thirsty. He could probably stand the hunger cramps if only someone would give him a mouthful of water. He did not care how foul, how brackish, that water was- anything had to be better than the filthy taste in his mouth: the taste of Cynric.

Lancelot shuddered. He was trembling uncontrollably; his muscles ached after hours of being tensed. He tried breathing deeply. In. Out. In. Out. He needed to relax in order to formulate an escape plan. He desperately tried to will himself calm but nothing could soothe the frantic trembling of his heart.

He was a brave knight, reduced to a frightened child as he lay in the dark: cold, alone and oh-so-dirty.

And in the end, he could not keep his thoughts from what had happened scarcely three hours since: what had happened when Cynric, son of Cerdic, had come to him

_It had been pitch black in the cart and Lancelot had first been alerted to the presence of another by the creaking of timber. _

_And the heavy breathing, of course._

"_You meant to humiliate me?" Cynric had whispered in his ear, his breath had been hot and foul._

_Lancelot had not said a word._

"_You'll regret it," Cynric had whispered. "Once I've finished with you, you'll beg me to let you die." _

Lancelot had not made a noise, even as Cynric had run his tongue down his neck; sank teeth into his throat.

"_You're nothing, you know that?" Cynric had forced a stale kiss on him: just one horrible, mean kiss._

_Lancelot had remained silent and Cynric had started laughing. "You're nothing but Arthur's little whore, are you?" He slapped Lancelot once across his face._

_Cynric's laughter was cold and strong but Lancelot made not a sound as he was forced onto his front; his face pressed hard against the floorboards of the cart so that he had involuntarily bitten down on his tongue and blood had filled his mouth. _

_Then there was cold air on his buttocks and-_

_Pain filled the world and mingled with the blood in his mouth._

_He could not think._

_He could scarcely breath._

_Pain before his eyes, in his mouth, deep inside him now. He did not even whimper._

_Then it was over._

"_Arthur's whore," Cynric had whispered once more before he left Lancelot, beaten, bruised and now raped so the blood ran down the back of his legs._

_And he must have passed out because he could remember no more. _

Lancelot's body gave a violent shudder but absurdly enough he almost felt better for having recalled his pain. Arthur had once said that only once a person had suffered could they expect salvation; eternal life came at a price. Of course, he hadn't believed a word of it.

It was natural enough that in the darkest time of his life, his thoughts should turn to Arthur. He often though about him but never before had his memories seemed so out of place. Arthur belonged to the clean and the good. He was champion to the weak; a knight who fought for an ideology that would never exist. He fought for the Rome of his dreams, a place of learning and beauty and justice. His memory did not belong in this stinking filthy camp.

And there was another thing: Arthur would never have been raped.

Lancelot knew this fact as well as he knew that Arthur would never have considered it. Capture had always been a possibility for the leader; torture as well. Death was a near certainty.

But not this.

_Raped. _The word haunted him.

Lancelot remembered the time when Woads had ambushed the band of knights, three winters since. That day was etched clearly on his memory as the day his world had nearly crumbled. An arrow had pierced Arthur's shoulder and brought his friend to the ground. In that one moment Lancelot's heart had forgotten to beat.

The archer had died at the hand of one of his twin swords.

And Arthur had hauled himself off the ground to fight, his teeth gritted against the pain, until his sword had fallen from his nerveless hands. The knights' seeing their leaders defiance, had won the fight. That evening Lancelot had used a hunting knife to cut the arrow from where it had lodged itself, deep in Arthur's right shoulder. Arthur's blood had flowed freely down his naked arm and mingled with Lancelot's own, weeping crimson tears from a dozen cuts and scratches from his own desperate fight.

"Joined by blood now, friend," Arthur had gasped, giving Lancelot a lopsided grin even as his eyes watered with the pain.

The cuts and scratches had long since healed over and an angry scar marked Arthur's shoulder but still a trace of Arthur's blood had mingled with his own.

Quite how he managed to fall asleep, Lancelot never knew. But he did sleep, deeply and for several hours.

That night he dreamed he was dead.

* * *

Someone was shaking him roughly and shouting. Lancelot clung onto his death-dream for as long as possible but in the end he was awake and in the land of the living. "Get up, you poxed bastard!" screamed the guard who was shaking him. Lancelot groaned and the guard hauled him out of the baggage cart, threw him onto the muddy ground and kicked him once before pulling him to his feet. The Saxon camp was lit by the half-light of a grey dawn.

"Cynric wants to see you," growled the guard. He was at least six feet tall and his flaxen-coloured beard was long and bushy. There were smears of dirt across his hollow cheeks but Lancelot had long since forgotten the meaning of cleanliness.

The night before he had dreamed he was dead and that morning he had little interest in life.

The Saxon guard dragged him to a campfire where Cynric sat with eleven warriors, all of them in various states of drunkenness. A hog was roasting on a spit above the fire. "Well, look if it isn't Arthur's little whore!" Some of the warriors jeered, while others cheered. Some looked puzzled as if they didn't know what to expect.

Lancelot had a feeling he knew what was coming but he didn't really care. He no longer had any hope of escaping from the Saxon camp and a man without hope has little to lose and little to live for.

And besides, what price was pain and humiliation and eventual death in exchange for Arthur's life?

"Pretty thing, isn't he?" shouted Cynric and his men laughed.

Lancelot looked at Cynric and at the grimy Saxon warriors and saw his own fate reflected in their eyes. A last spark of defiance started in him. "You're not men," he said. "You're dogs." He tried to spit but his mouth was too dry.

"Here that, lads?" demanded Cynric. "Let's teach the little whelp some manners!"

There was a chorus of 'Aye' and suddenly grinning, leering, drunken, ugly Saxons surrounded Lancelot. The he was knocked to the ground and the first warrior was over him, on him, in him, even as the others cheered in a drink-fuelled frenzy.

One after another they took him and soon Lancelot ceased to think and to feel.

After so much pain there is only numbness.

* * *

They threw him into the baggage cart and left him, satisfied that he would not have the strength to move. They were right. He lay perfectly still in the position he had landed in: on his back with his bound arms lying beneath them.

Ten hours passed and Lancelot did not move; he simply waited for sleep or death or Cynric- whichever should come first.

And in the end, none of them came.

As night fell, the camp grew louder. Women shrieked and giggled, men yelled insults from campfire to campfire and after a time, the insults turned into brawls. One young warrior was stabbed and another lost an ear in a drunken knife fight.

And Lancelot did not move.

Eventually he heard a choking gasp from close outside the cart and the faint creaking of timbers heralded the presence of another.

"Lancelot?"

The voice was quiet and low and certainly didn't belong to Cynric. In fact, it didn't sound Saxon. "Who?" he whispered back. It was hard to say anything at all with his throat as dry as it was.

The creaking of boards sounded again, though not so loudly as it had with Cynric the night before, and a hand reached out for him. The man smelt of earth and evergreens- rather like nature itself- and Lancelot knew whom it was even before the man identified himself.

"Tristan."

_This is a dream_, thought Lancelot, even as he hoped it wasn't.

For a moment he wondered if Tristan was in fact the angel of death. He chuckled to himself at the thought, though the chuckle was a harsh rasping noise and contained neither warmth nor humour.

"I'm either dreaming or else I'm dead," he murmured.

"You may well be, but I assure you I'm neither," Tristan said.

At any rate, the hands untying Lancelot's bonds were real. After releasing him, they drifted to his forehead and crept along his hairline, easing away his dirty matted hair from the crusts of blood on his head wound. The touch was gentle, tender even, and Lancelot shivered. He had been captured and now he was to be freed. The flame of hope burned bright in the place of his despair. "Thank you," he whispered, as tears wet the corners of his eyes.

Tristan, in typical fashion, did not say another word.

**Tbc...**

I'm all out of faith. This is how I feel.  
I'm cold and I am shamed, lying naked on the floor.

...You're a little late, I'm already torn.

**-'Torn', Natalie Imbruglia**


	4. Fortune Favours The Brave

Sorry about the delay- I had writer's block for this one chapter. However, the rest of the story is nearly written so I'll update a lot quicker. Right, thanks to these lovely people: LJ Groundwater, Stahlfan125, Briel, Demus, ShatteredDesire, Shauna, GaBo0 (definitely Lancelot/Tristan!), RuByMoOn17, HikariChan, nienna unyarima, xStarryEyedx, Goody, KnightoftheRoundTable, bakachan17, Shalott32 and lucy-wibbles.

**Chapter Four**

Arthur stared into the feeble, flickering flames. He was nervous. It was understandable, really. There he was, camped four miles from an entire Saxon army, with only three other men. The fact that all of them were armed to the teeth did little to allay Arthur's nerves. They had lit a fire, which was foolish, but they were deep in woodland and the damp timber did little more than splutter and smoke.

The night was so dark that Arthur could scarcely make out the form of Bors sleeping, scarcely two yards away.

It wasn't really the nearness of the Saxon army and the imminent death that awaited them if found, that was worrying him. It wasn't even the fact that he had just sent Tristan on a mission that offered him little more that half odds of returning. No, the person that made Arthur's hands shake and his heart heavy was Lancelot. Arthur could barely bring himself to imagine the things that his friend must be going though. Beatings, brandings, manacles and white-hot pokers, whips and sticks, razor-edged knives...

_When he returns he'll be a broken man, _Arthur thought. He didn't pause to consider that Lancelot might be dead already or that Tristan might not succeed. Both of those thoughts were too dreadful to even contemplate.

Arthur shook his head and gripped his right hand round the hilt of his sword to still its shaking. Bors snored loudly from down at his feet and Galahad, lying between Bors and the feeble campfire, turned over in his sleep.

Gawain appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and knelt by Arthur. "He sleeps like a baby," he said, indicating Galahad with a nod of his head.

"Not on watch?" Arthur asked.

Gawain stretched his hands towards the fire. "Not asleep?" He chided gently before explaining himself. "The night is dark, the wind is loud. In all likelihood I'd miss any attackers and you lot would all be slaughtered while I stood on sentry duty, utterly oblivious."

Arthur gave a half-hearted smile. "You're quite right. It's much better for you to be slaughtered alongside us."

His words might have been in jest (Gawain did chuckle) but the underlying message was made clear by the man's glance at Galahad. If Galahad had to die, then Gawain would die with him. That was what friends were for.

A spark flew from the fire and landed on Arthur's hand, burning him. _I should be with Lancelot. I should suffer as he suffers, _Arthur realised.

He looked at Gawain. "I shall find no rest until this has ended: until Lancelot is safe..."

Gawain nodded and refrained from voicing his concern that Lancelot might not return. Tristan might not return. This mission might not be more than a fool's errand.

"You know what? I think the wind's calming; I'll go back on watch," he said suddenly. Maybe the wind was calming: more probably Gawain saw Arthur's need to be alone with his thoughts. He disappeared back into the night.

* * *

Tristan helped Lancelot down from the baggage cart, supporting the younger man as he stumbled. "Are you wounded?" he whispered. 

"No." It might have been a lie but it was a necessary one as far as Lancelot was concerned. "Just weak," he added. He jumped as he spotted two Saxon guards sitting on the ground, ale flagons in hand, staring straight at them. "Tristan!"

"They're dead."

On second glance, the guards were indeed dead, their throats cut from ear to ear. It looked so neat. Tristan made killing into an art; every stroke of his curved sword was beautiful, each opponent killed quickly and cleanly.

Lancelot came out of his reverie when Tristan wrapped an arm round his waist and pulled him forwards. For a moment, Lancelot tensed at the contact, then he gratefully placed his right arm around Tristan soldiers. Somehow, Tristan guided him through the camp. It was such a dark night that Lancelot could make out nothing but campfires. He didn't know how he would have made it without Tristan supporting and steering him.

He peered at the men crowded round the campfires as they passed them but he saw neither Cynric nor any of the men who had raped him.

Suddenly and unceremoniously, Tristan shoved Lancelot to the ground. "Get down!" he hissed.

Lancelot lay on the frozen ground for several minutes. He tried to rub some life back into his numb hands but they had been bound behind his back for two days and didn't respond. His lower back ached dreadfully and his head was pounding again.

Eventually, Tristan returned and held out his hand for Lancelot. It was slippery with blood. "What happened?" Lancelot whispered.

Tristan did not respond but instead dragged Lancelot forwards into a stumbling run. Each time Lancelot fell, he was hauled to his feet. They ran, half-crouching as they went, for several long minutes but they passed no more campfires and after a while they were in empty open ground. Finally, Lancelot could run no further, even with Tristan's hand in his, pulling him forward. "No more," he gasped.

Tristan didn't complain as he fell to the ground, his breath coming in harsh rasps, but instead crouched next to him. "You did well," he whispered. He produced a wine skin and a piece of tough bread, which Lancelot fell on like a dog. The bread may have been nearly frozen but it tasted good. The wine skin turned out to be filled with water.

"No wine?" Lancelot gasped.

Tristan laughed softly. "We must go."

It hurt to say it. It actually hurt more than anything he had yet suffered. "I can't," Lancelot said softly.

"You can," Tristan replied firmly. He once more pulled Lancelot to his feet, then frowned as he fell straight back to the ground.

Lancelot shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Tristan shrugged and swallowed a few mouthfulls of the water. Then, with a grunt, he managed to pick Lancelot up -his fellow knight was unconscious by now- and throw him across his left shoulder. He carried Lancelot to the horse that was tethered nearby. It wasn't difficult for a knight trained to wear heavy armour- all things considered, the unconscious knight was a surprisingly light burden.

* * *

Dawn broke over the hills, slowly and hesitantly. Arthur stood side-by-side with Gawain and waited. It was a cold dawn and the world had not yet turned from grey, when Arthur spoke. 

"Do you hear it?"

There was a moment of uneasy silence in which Gawain strained to hear. "No," He whispered, shooting a worried look at his commander. "Are you sure you-"

"Just listen!" Arthur scolded and his voice sounded ridiculously loud at such a quiet hour of the day. Gawain, naturally enough, refrained from replying and listened intently. He heard nothing save the wind in the trees, an owl hooting softly, the crackling of twigs...

Gawain started, and then listened again. The crackling of twigs and the breathing of a horse. It was faint but audible.

"You hear it now, I suppose?" Arthur murmured. "Either it's Tristan or we're about to have a fight on our hands." His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

He could sense the rider coming closer; could picture the beast trotting forward, head stretched out low below the branches- but how many riders on its back? One or two?

Arthur glanced at Gawain. "Wake the others," he hissed. "Could be a fight."

Gawain disappeared and Arthur drew his sword as slowly as he could, in an effort to quieten the harsh noise of sword scraping against scabbard- steel scraping in the steel-grey light.

He waited for Gawain to return with Bors and Galahad before judging the moment to be right. "Password!" he hailed.

The voice that growled a reply was unmistakeable. "_Audentis Fortunas Iuvat_!"

Fortune favours the brave. Never was it truer, Arthur realised. "Show yourself!" he demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion.

There weren't words enough to describe his feelings as Tristan rode into the camp. And then what words could describe the dreadful jolt he felt when he saw Tristan's horse had only one rider?

"Lancelot?" he croaked, grabbing the horse's reins and pulling the unfortunate sweating beast into a skidding stop. And then he froze as he saw that there was another figure, slung in front of the saddle and lying as still as stone. "Heavenly Father, no," he murmured.

"He's not dead," said Tristan shortly.

There was relief then for Arthur and it was potent as a drug. His mouth split open into a huge smile and he embraced the man nearest to him: Galahad as it happened. Indeed, it was several seconds before the brightness of the moment was clouded with worry and a frown of concern crossed Arthur's face. He reached out for Lancelot and cautiously lifted the unconscious knight down into his arms.

"What is it?" he demanded. His voice was oddly high.

Tristan's, on the other hand, was a deep as ever. "Who knows?" he said, hauling himself out of the saddle. "Who knows?"

Looking at Lancelot, Arthur was shocked to see the bruising and swelling all across his face: the dried blood that still clung to the dark curls, falling across his forehead. Arthur had expected bruises, prayed for them, in fact. _Dear God let there be no injury but bruises... Let him be black and blue but not crippled. Nothing he can't bear..._

_Nothing I can't bear..._

* * *

__

_Lancelot dreamt he was on a winged horse and flying through the sky above Britain. There were snow-topped mountains below and long snaking rivers. He had never noticed how green the country was before. Forests with more trees than soldiers in armies lay beneath the hooves of his winged horse and everything was bathed in a soft golden light._

"_Worth fighting for is it?" asked somebody. Lancelot looked around, seeking the voice, but found the sky empty except for himself and his winged steed._

_Lancelot rode on and the soft golden light began to turn red. Sunset. Darkness following daylight. Danger following hope. There were terrors in the night and Lancelot spurred his flying horse to the west, hoping to catch the last rays of sunlight. He didn't get far, though, because smoke began to fill his lungs. He coughed and glanced down to see one of Britain's forests being consumed by fire._

"_As I consumed you," said another voice. It sounded like Cynric's. _

_Lancelot spurred his winged horse on even faster, desperate to escape the disembodied voice, but the beast screamed and reared. Its hooves were on fire. Lancelot realised this, even as he fell from its back._

_Down, down. The world became hotter and hotter. Down. Down. Lancelot fell into the burning forest._

He awoke suddenly but didn't open his eyes. He could hear the crackling of a fire very close by and the left-hand side of his body was almost painfully hot.

The heat was quickly forgotten when he heard Arthur and Tristan talking, just metres away.

"Can you be tracked?" Arthur's voice, strong and filled with concern.

Tristan took a long while to reply. "I could track me," he said eventually.

Lancelot smiled and knew he should be feeling pain but the truth was there was none. He was too hot perhaps, or too joyful at being saved. His entire body ached but it was not pain as such, just soreness.

"We must leave in an hour," said Arthur.

"Lancelot will ride with me." Tristan had always had the habit of answering unspoken questions.

"Yes."

Lancelot kept his eyes closed for a while and listened to the two voices. Tristan's was the voice of an enigma; deep, soft, seldom enough heard compared with the querulous tones of the other knights. But there was something else to Tristan's voice that Lancelot had never before noticed: it was the voice of hope. It was the voice that had been light in the darkness: the voice of a saviour, an angel.

And then there was Arthur. He was a commander who didn't command bur rather asked. His voice was deep too but gentler than Tristan's and there was raw emotion in his words that Tristan could never convey.

"How did you find him?" asked Arthur.

"Under guard." There were implications in those two words: the Guards were dead, murdered. The other knights said that Tristan enjoyed killing for killing's sake: not the euphoria of battle but the actual cold, deadly art of it. How could Tristan be an angel and a killer? It didn't make sense.

But then again, what did?

"No, no." Lancelot couldn't see and yet he knew Arthur would be shaking his head- maybe even rubbing his left temple as he always did when trying to phrase a difficult question or instruction. "I mean in what condition was he?"

"Well, he looks beaten up to me. Half-killed in fact."  
  
"Christ in heaven, man!" Arthur snapped. Lancelot almost opened his eyes. He had never before heard his commander blaspheme- or indeed raise his voice in real anger to any of his fellow knights. "What have they done to him?" Arthur continued in a quieter tone.

"I am a scout, not a seer," said Tristan. He didn't really sound angry. He never did.

But maybe something was troubling Tristan because a few minutes later Lancelot heard the distant sound of Tristan speaking with -or rather being questioned by- Bors. He hadn't even heard the scout leave. Still, it was not the best time to be reflecting on the silence of Tristan's movements. For one thing, the fire was almost burning him. He opened his eyes and found himself in the middle of a small camp.

Arthur was sitting nearby on a boulder with his head cradled in his hands.

"Are you trying to burn me alive?" Lancelot demanded loudly. He struggled to sit upright, groaning as the first stab of real pain reached him.

"LANCELOT?!" Arthur was there, by his side, in seconds. "You are alive," he said, clutching Lancelot's hand.

"Just about..." The pain was growing by the second: pain from his head wound and pain from the other wound too. The unmentionable wound.

"I thought you were dead... When I saw Tristan with this body... I felt like the- no, no."

"What?"

Arthur coloured for a moment. "Like the entire world had suddenly turned cold," he said quietly.

Lancelot gave a lopsided smile and then gasped sharply as a spasm of pain travelled through his body. "I didn't know you cared," he teased, trying to make light of both the pain and the serious turn of conversation.

The teasing, however, was spoilt when he saw the glimmer of a tear in the corner of Arthur's eye. "I'm sorry," he murmured, trying not to grimace with pain. He squeezed his friend's hand instead. "Sorry."

"You know I care," said Arthur. "You must know I care." The tear perched precariously at the corner of his eye and then, achingly slowly, it dislodged itself and landed on the hand that Arthur still clutched.

"I know," Lancelot half-whispered.

'_Arthur's whore' _said a voice in his head. He ignored it.

**Tbc...**


	5. The Story Told In Bruises

Thanks go to all of these unbelievably cool people: KnightoftheRoundTable, Ivory Novelist, GaBo0, L J Groundwater, Stahlfan125, Demus, Goody, Steelsings (really, I thought that review itself was long and wonderful!) Camreyn and Shauna.

Warning: Disturbing content.

**Chapter Five**

Arthur's horse pawed the ground impatiently and snorted so the breath leaving its nostrils condensed into white clouds. "We should ride hard and fast," he instructed. He nodded to Gawain, who turned his own mount and spurred it forwards. It was dangerous country and the decision had been made to separate and make for a campsite they often used, nearly half way to Hadrian's Wall. Safety was in speed and secrecy, not numbers. Bors and Galahad were already well on their way.

Arthur glanced across at Lancelot. His fellow knight was perched precariously on Tristan's grey mare, his long bony fingers clamped tightly around the horse's mane. And he was pale- so pale that the bruise across his right cheek, livid purple, appeared too dark to be real. Is must surely be a bad dream.

"Are you well, my friend?" Arthur cursed himself as soon as he said the words. He tried, a little awkwardly, to apologise. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive. I..."

"I am fine," said Lancelot. Tristan's mare had not moved a muscle since he mounted her, yet he still had to cling on desperately to remain in place. It hurt too. The ache in his lower back had vanished and returned as fire. It was so painful that his eyes kept watering and from time to time he had to swipe at them with the back of his hand. Which in turn meant that one hand had to let go of the horse's mane and he would lose him balance and...

Tristan appeared, suddenly and silently. "Not a trace of us remains," he said, swinging himself up behind Lancelot with one fluid motion. "Take the reins and lean back," he instructed Lancelot, who reluctantly obeyed and tried not to grimace at a twinge of pain down his side.

"What about the campfire?" Arthur asked Tristan.

Tristan didn't even bother answering. He took the reins from Lancelot, gathered them in his left hand and then firmly wrapped his right around the younger man's stomach. "You won't fall," he murmured quietly. He touched his heels to his horse's flanks and the beast sprang forward easily.

After a time, Lancelot fell asleep.

* * *

Lancelot awoke nearly two hours later. He didn't speak for a minute but instead enjoyed the feeling of Tristan's solid mass reassuringly pressed against his back. This man was his saviour, he remembered. 

"Where's Arthur?" he eventually asked.

"Not far behind." Tristan's voice was little more than a low growl.

Glancing around, Lancelot saw the landscape had changed little but he could gauge the distance they had travelled by the sweat covering the sides of Tristan's horse.

"Does she have a name?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Your horse."

"Flight." The name was said with reverence: one beautiful syllable rolling off Tristan's tongue.

"Why?"

"Because she flies."

Lancelot didn't stay awake for long; the gentle rocking of the horse -Tristan's horse with its hooves that scarcely touched the ground- lulled Lancelot into a state of half-sleep. It was a little odd, perhaps, but he felt safe with Tristan. It felt good to let his guard down and relax: to be able to forget his pain. It was a small respite but valuable all the same after nearly forty-eight hours of terror.

* * *

The camp was situated in a tiny clearing near the edge of a small, dense forest. The vast majority of trees were evergreens; their colour was startling amidst the greyness of the surrounding landscape. The camp backed onto a tiny stream, nothing more than a trickle in places but swollen all the same by the recent rain. 

The first thing they saw on arriving was Bors' and Gawain's horses tethered close together and looking thoroughly downtrodden.

A moment later Gawain hailed them, waking Lancelot. "Password!"

"Audentis Fortunas Iuvat!" shouted Arthur, who had caught them up.

A moment later, Gawain emerged from the edge of the wood and waved a hand in greeting. "The Saxon army won't ever catch us now!" he said cheerfully. "Don't know why the buggers don't get horses!"

"They eat horses," said Tristan. He dismounted. An odd silence followed Tristan's remark as if the other knights found Tristan's voice so unfamiliar that they were left speechless. Tristan had a way of ending conversations.

It was Arthur who, sensing the unease, finally spoke up. "Well, I for one am starving. Who's cooking?" he asked.

"That would be Galahad," said Gawain with a smile. "Only the little sod's disappeared!"

Arthur laughed. "He must have been waylaid somewhere."

Bors appeared. "I'd take bets that he's found himself some damsel in distress," he said. "Women always go for the pretty ones!"

"Now that isn't jealousy I'm sensing, is it?" Gawain teased. "Not when you have eleven bastards and Vanora in your bed!"

Everyone waited for the inevitable joke from Lancelot. _Have you ever noticed, Bors, how alike some of your kids are to me? Odd, isn't it?_

No joke came and Gawain, Bors and Arthur all turned to look at Lancelot who was still clinging on, white knuckled, to Tristan's horse.

"How are you, Lancey?" asked Bors awkwardly.

"I've felt better." It was the understatement of the century but it wasn't a lie: Lancelot had certainly felt better.

"Aye, but you've felt worse too, eh?"

Lancelot nodded, sure that he must have felt worse at some time in his life. He searched his memory. Perhaps three winters ago when a Woad had shot him in the thigh, just inches away from his groin, and Galahad had been in charge of the cauterising iron.

Galahad had notoriously shaky hands for a knight.

Yes, he decided. He had _certainly_ felt worse as he had watched the trembling piece of red-hot metal approach his manhood.

"Lancelot?" Gawain's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I'll take the horse."

"Yes... Thanks..." said Lancelot. He reluctantly slithered down from the horse, almost crying out in pain at the sudden change of position. He hit the ground stumbling and desperately grasped at Gawain's arm to remain upright.

"You sure you're alright?" asked the blonde-haired knight curiously.

"Ummm," said Lancelot weakly. He watched Gawain tend to Flight and dimly heard footsteps behind him.

"Bloody freezing, eh lad? Come and sit next to the fire." Bors clapped a firm hand onto Lancelot's shoulder.

Lancelot could not help it: he shuddered violently and a memory came to him, so suddenly that it caught him unawares. _Hands shoving him down, face down so he couldn't see. The floorboards were hard; the hands were harsh._

"You're shivering," Bors said, misinterpreting Lancelot's shudder. His hand had moved lower down Lancelot's back, steering him towards a fire.

_Hands on him, all over him, searing into his flesh. Like being branded over and over again. The same hands yanking down his breeches..._

"Here, sit there and warm up." Bors finally relinquished his grip and Lancelot realised he was shaking violently.

"Thank you," he said softly. His voice came out as little more than a rasp.

"No problem." Bors glanced up at the hesitant winter sun. "Where on this earth is Galahad? He's had more that enough time for a quick fuck! My stomach's going to eat itself if it doesn't get food soon."

"Do you good to lose a bit of weight," said Arthur genially. He held out a blanket to Lancelot. "Wrap it round you."

Lancelot nodded his head weakly. He tried to wrap the blanket round himself but his shaking hands fumbled the job and Arthur had do it himself.

_It had felt like hell and hell-fire. Like being ripped apart- torn in two. And all the time those horrible, cruel, scratching, clawing hands had wandered._

"Are you quite okay?" Arthur asked gently. He was kneeling right in front of Lancelot, his green eyes staring beseechingly into Lancelot's own.

"Where's Tristan?" Lancelot found himself asking. He felt strangely uneasy without the other knight.

"He's just having a look around." Arthur spat onto his hand and dabbed at a graze above Lancelot's eye. "You're a little worse for wear, brother, that's all."

_He'd bitten his tongue and there was coppery blood in his mouth. Blood everywhere...blood between his legs. "You're nothing but Arthur's whore." That was Cynric, his foul breath in Lancelot's ear._

"Lancelot? What's up?" Arthur's voice was distant.

_And then the day after there had been lots of them. All at once. Too many to bear. He couldn't take it. He really couldn't._

Lancelot suddenly went absolutely rigid. He was still for one moment before his eyes rolled back into his head.

_"You're nothing." The world on fire- too many of them. "Arthur's whore." He was burning..._

Lancelot's body violently convulsed, once, twice.

"What's going on?" demanded Bors.

Arthur grabbed hold of his friend and tried to stop the dreadful spasms. "Get Tristan," he demanded. "NOW!"

_It had to end. Where was the numbness? Oh blessed numbness..._

* * *

Someone was trickling broth into his mouth. It was good- of the knights only Galahad could cook so well. 

Lancelot opened his eyes and found five armoured knights watching him. Tristan was crouched over him, with a spoon and a bowl of steaming broth. "What happened?"

Four of the knights looked uncomfortable. Tristan fed him another mouthful of broth with a blank expression on his face. Humans had never held much interest for Tristan.

"You blacked out," said Arthur softly, choosing not to mention the fit.

"Oh."

Lancelot felt embarrassed, ashamed. Knights didn't black out for no reason, collapse to the floor and wake up an interminable time later, being spoon-fed like a babe.

"I'm fine now," he said. "Really." He shoved Tristan and the spoon away and looked down at the ground. Suddenly, he felt so dirty. "There's a stream nearby?" he asked.

"Yes," said Arthur dubiously.

"I must bathe." Lancelot leapt to his feet and tried to ignore the stars that appeared before his eyes.

"It'll be freezing." Arthur was trying to be the voice of reason, as always.

And for once, Lancelot ignored him.

"You can't go alone," said Arthur gently. The implications behind his words were clear: you might black out again and then what would happen?

Lancelot looked at his fellow knights. Bors, Gawain, Galahad and even Arthur were looking at him as if he'd grown another head. Tristan alone seemed unconcerned: he was drinking Lancelot's broth.

"Tristan," said Lancelot shortly. He headed, a little shakily, in the direction of the stream. He didn't hear anyone following him but when he got there he found Tristan calmly waiting.

Lancelot hesitated and then removed his boots.

Tristan didn't say a word –at least he wasn't asking how Lancelot felt- but instead whistled to the sky. A moment later his hawk swooped down and perched on the older man's forearm. Its round orange eyes peered at Lancelot.

"Does your hawk have a name?" Lancelot asked, surprised to find that he was curious.

"No."  
  
"Why not?"

Tristan shrugged. "Wild things don't have names."

It was a stupid thing to say: he knew it before he said it but he still voiced the thought. "You have a name," Lancelot said.

Tristan didn't laugh but he didn't say anything either. He took a mouse from the folds of his cloak–a dead mouse, of all things- and gave it to the hawk. He gently stroked the bird's feathers and ignored Lancelot completely. Seeing this, Lancelot quickly stripped off his clothes and leapt into the shallow brook. It was so cold that he almost squealed. He splashed about for a moment, and then scrambled back out of the water.

After a quick glance at Tristan (was the man really talking to his hawk?) Lancelot knelt on the bank, leaned down and splashed water over himself.

It was so cold it was painful and yet it felt wonderful to be clean again.

He became so absorbed in his task that he didn't see Tristan cast off his hawk; didn't at first notice his fellow knight's eyes slowly wander over the bruises down his back, down his legs- the inside of his thighs. Bruises shaped like fingers. And scratches too.

It wasn't until he saw the hawk circling overhead, that Lancelot turned around to face Tristan. Lacnelot watched eyes running up his arms and taking in the bruises, lingering for a while on the crimson bite mark at his throat. "All they did was beat me," he said. He tried to smile; tried to inject a little of the old Lancelot bravado into his voice. "They could have done much worse."

_'Could they?' _an inner voice whispered.

Tristan's face did not soften as he listened but rather a frown appeared. He actually shook his head. "You are..." he paused, determined to find the right words to express his suspicions.

No words came.

Lancelot looked up at him, his eyes soft and sad. "Torn," he said in an attempt to be at once cryptic and truthful.

And the sunlight was cold on the bruises that told a story: no words just harsh crude marks of black and purple and green that spoke for themselves.

And in an instant, Tristan understood what had happened. He averted his eyes.

"I am torn," Lancelot whispered.

_Tbc..._


	6. Tristan's Honour

Thanks to all my kind reviewers: L J Groundwater (I'm doing my best!), ShatteredDesire, Stahlfan125, Squallsgurlygurl, Ivory Novelist, Camreyn (I'm really grateful for this review- it gave me a fantastic insight into how my work reads. Thank you!) , Shauna, Demus, GaBo0, Jemiul, Steelsings (all questions will be answered. In the mean time, I loved my review!), S, Hidden, Goody and mrsjdhappiness.

**Chapter Six**

_Cynric awoke when a foot collided with his stomach. He groaned and rolled onto his back. "Who do you think you are?" he growled at the man who had kicked him- one of Cerdic's heavies by the look of the brute._

_"Come with me," said the man, hauling Cynric to his feet and unceremoniously pushing him forwards._

_"Do you know who I am?"_

_"Do I look like I care?" The last remark was punctuated with the harsh jab of a knife to Cynric's back. "King Cerdic would like a word."_

_Cerdic's big, filthy tent was filled with big, filthy men. Cerdic stood in the centre, next to a man bearing a flame torch._

_"What?" demanded Cynric. He glared daggers at his father._

_"You address me as 'My Lord'." There was ice in Cerdic's voice._

_"What, _My Lord_?" Cynric eyed the occupants of his father's tent somewhat nervously and wondered why he hadn't thought to call for his own division of men._

_"You have once again shown a remarkable talent for failure," said Cerdic._

_Cynric began to tremble. "What, My Lord, have I done?"_

_"The knight –Sir Lancelot- has been freed." Cerdic cracked his knuckles menacingly._

_"No. It's not possible. He's under guard… He can't be…"_

_Cerdic nodded and two of his men stepped forward. One grabbed Cynric in an iron embrace, the other drew a knife that glinted in the torchlight._

"_Father!" cried Cynric, shocked and fearful._

"_I am not your father; you are not my son." Cerdic nodded again and the man with the knife cut off Cynric's beard- the ultimate sign of dishonour. Cynric tried not to look relieved and nearly succeeded. In the place of fear, anger rose up inside of him. To be so humiliated and in front of so many people… He vowed revenge at that moment: not on his father –God help those who sought revenge on the King of the Saxons- but on Lancelot._

"_Fail me again, soldier, and the pain will be lower on your body and much more real." Cerdic made a crude gesture and the crowd of men began to laugh._

_They threw the beardless Cynric out into the night._

* * *

The band of knights reached Hadrian's Wall at dawn the following morning. The air was cold and damp and from the look of the clouds, rain was impending. 

The world had turned grey, Lancelot decided once he had been woken by Tristan's whisper of '_the wall_' in his ear.

"Good to be home!" declared Galahad happily.

"Now that's a fine thing to say after your antics yesterday!" Bors said indignantly. This last remark was a direct reference to the pretty fair-haired girl or perhaps fifteen that was clinging to Galahad's waist and smiling happily.

Galahad defended himself heartily but soon realised he was fighting a losing battle against the taunts of Bors and the chuckles of Gawain. "I merely rescued her!" he cried.

"Sure you did!"

"She's a runaway, poor thing…" Galahad was blushing.

Bors grinned. "Awww… Look at that. The young 'un is in love. Flying away on the wings of his first true passion… Oh! The romance of it!"

Gawain laughed even harder as Galahad turned scarlet.

"She's a runaway from the Saxons army. Perhaps their living conditions aren't all that great…" mused Arthur, ignoring Galahad's plight. His eyes fell on Lancelot for a moment and he considered asking his friend exactly what it had been like in the Saxon camp before he thought better of it. Lancelot looked weary, haggard and oddly nervous; he was leaning right back into Tristan's embrace as if afraid of falling from the horse. He had plainly been through a lot; why worsen his pain by asking him to remember things that should plainly be forgotten?

Lancelot sensed Arthur's gaze on him. He turned and met his friend's eyes. "It's hell," he said. He almost felt Tristan's grip on him tighten as he said it. Perhaps he imagined it.

They were admitted into the fort without hesitation where they were met with perhaps two-dozen people: scarcely half of the inhabitants that had lived there two days ago. The Britons were evidently fleeing before the advancing Saxon army.

"Not long now," said Bors. He had become subdued in the face of the mass desertion of the fortress. His smile was grim as he leapt from his horse and embraced Verona and as many bastard children as he could lay his hands on.

In the eager delight of homecomings, no one save Tristan noticed Lancelot approach the ironsmith.

**Two Hours Later**

Tristan had never been near Lancelot's room before. He lifted a hand up to the door and clenched it into a fist. It looked strange. The hand was ready for a fight but there was just a door standing in the way. Clenched fists were for fighting: the rest of life was a test of silence and stealth- a test in which only the silent and stealthy could ever hope to succeed.

Tristan was the incarnation. Silence and stealth in a man.

He lowered his hand and leant his weight against the door. It didn't open. He glanced left and right down the hallway then, still as quietly as possible, charged the door- once, twice… He stopped and glared at the obstacle in his way.

It was locked.

Tristan had come this far; he determined upon breaking the door down if he had to. He paused for a moment in preparation; his lithe body was tense like a spring. Then there was the scraping of metal and a second later the door swung open and lancelot stood before him.

"Why not knock?" Lancelot asked as Tristan stepped past him.

"Knights don't have locks on their doors."

"Perhaps they should, if people are just going to barge in." The old Lancelot would have delivered the remark with a cutting edge. The old Lancelot would have smirked.

"I'm so tired," said this Lancelot sitting on the edge of his bed and lowering his head into his hands. He watched as Tristan examined the crude iron latch on his door. "Why are you here?"

"To bring you this." Tristan set a tiny stone jar of ointment down on the floor. "This is for the scratches and the bite," he said.

"Bite?" Lancelot shrugged- waved a hand around vaguely. Feigned innocence."I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do," Tristan replied. His eyes examined Lancelot shamelessly. In the right light the contrast between pale skin and thepurple-black bruise on the man's cheek was beautiful."You said you were torn," Tristan said softly.

"Did I? I don't know." Lancelot looked up at Tristan. "Maybe you could come back later."

Tristan nodded his head again, the movement impressive in its majesty.

* * *

For Tristan, later occurred two hours after the last meeting. 

This time he did knock on the door. It was soft and reluctant, as if he did not like announcing his presence so boldly.

"Tristan?" Lancelot asked.

"Yes."

Lancelot climbed off his bed, padded across the room and lifted the crude iron latch. Tristan stood on the other side, his long hair damp and tangled and hanging in curtains framing his face, and a large armful of firewood clutched to his breast. He gave a barely perceptible nod by way of greeting and barged into Lancelot's room.

"I'll light the fire."

Lancelot watched as he did so, tenderly breathing life into a spark and then a flame and then a tiny blaze. The fire smoked badly. It had clearly not been lit that often.

Tristan didn't sit down but instead stood while Lancelot perched on the edge of his bed.

"I know what was done to you," Tristan said. For the first time in his life, his did manage to look as though he found something awkward. "I know what they did."

"You can't," Lancelot said. After all who could possibly imagine what had happened?

_Arthur never could._

"I do," Tristan insisted. There was something, some trace of emotion in his voice: a vowel catching in his throat, a stutter on the first syllable. "When I was young, nine perhaps, two men came to myhome. I cannotrecall exactly what they looked like but I have the impression that they were very big."

"And?" Tristan had always been an enigma: anything he said could inspire curiosity.

"They stank of ale and smoke and filth." Tristan paused and rubbed a gnarled hand across his temple. He looked suddenly old. "Mostly of ale, though. They laughed and my mother never made a noise."

Lancelot leaned forward, silently urging Tristan to continue. "A noise?"

"No. Not a whimper all through it. One of them knocked her to the floor, sat on her, forced her legs apart…"

Lancelot stared at him, dreading what he knew he was about to hear.

"They raped her, Lancelot." No words could fully encapsulate the emotion of a nine-year-old boy made to watch what he didn't fully understand but all the same knew to be intrinsically wrong.

"I'm sorry," whispered Lancelot. The back of his throat tickled, heralded tears. He hadn't cried since he was a boy. Tristan probably hadn't either. Not since the men had left and his mother had wept. She'd probably sworn him to silence: _don't tell your father, Tristan-dear. It wasn't anything important. _Lancelot could hear the words Tristan's mother would have said.

He felt his pain mingling with that of a nine-year-old Tristan.

"I'm sorry," said Tristan. "I'm sorry thatI know. I wish I didn't "

"Tell no one," Lancelot said fiercely. He looked like a wounded predator.The dancing flames of the firewere reflected in his eyes. He was more beautiful than ever, Tristan realised. "Not even Arthur."

Tristan said nothing.

"Tell no one, Tristan. You must swear it. On your honour."

Tristan still hesitated but then Lancelot's eyes were burning into his soul. It would be so easy to lie if it weren't for the word '_honour'_.

"I swear it," Tristan said. He was suddenly weary: desperate for his own bedchamber- desperate to escape the beautiful man with eyes that burned.

"On your honour?"

"My honour," he agreed.

* * *

Tristan moved quickly along the passages with his cloak trailing in his wake. The very air inside the keep was oppressing him; the walls were slowly but inexorably closing in.

He'd been alone for too long. Company –real company, real relationships- unnerved him. He craved wide expanses of cloudless sky and the world empty except for him and his horse and his hawk.

And the odd enemy to kill, of course.

Outside, Tristan gulped down air like a man starved of oxygen. It was freezing and yet there was an indescribable tension in the air that spoke of a storm coming. "They'll be a storm tonight," he said to Bors when the giant man joined him outside.

"Where's Lancelot?" Bors demanded . "Why can't we see 'im?"

_On your honour, you said_, thought Tristan. He shrugged his shoulders. "How's Vanora?"

"Vanora's fine. Now, is somethin' wrong with Lancey or not?"

Tristan wished he hadn't promised Lancelot anything. He took out one of his throwing knives fromits sheathand tested the edge for sharpness in the hope that Bors would become bored and go away. A tiny droplet of blood formed on his finger, which he ignored. When he looked up again, Bors was still there only now he was flanked by Galahad and Gawain.

"The Saxons are brutal," said Tristan noncommittally. "You know that."

"What did they do to him?" asked Galahad, looking at him stonily. They were a band of knights: equals at the round table; equals in battle- they killed together, lost friends together, risked their own lives together; afterwards, they celebrated together. There could be no secrets between them. "What's wrong?"

"He's wounded."

"He looks fine to me," said Bors. "Fact, I've seen him more beat up than that many times."

Tristan sighed. He looked appealingly at Galahad and Gawain. "Not all wounds are visible," he ventured but was met with blank stares by all three men.

"Huh?"

"Not all wounds are visible," he said again, putting extra emphasis on the words '_wounds'_ and '_visible'_. He felt like a traitor.

No response.

"Has he gone mad?" asked Galahad eventually.

Tristan shook his head; put his knife back in its sheath.

"Has who gone mad?" asked Arthur, blinking slightly as he emerged from the gloom of the keep into the stark winter daylight. _Tristan's saviour._

"Lancelot," said Galahad.

Arthur stared at the youngest knight for a moment, surprise etched clearly across his face. "I can tell you who _has_ gone mad!" he laughed.

"No really," said Bors. Anger was visible in his countenance as he took an involuntary step towards Tristan. "Something's up with Lancelot. And 'e," a thumb was jerked at the dark haired knight, "won't tell us what."

"Bors, calm down." If he hadn't been a soldier, a career in diplomacy would have been admirably suited for Arthur. "I'm sure that if something were really wrong with Lancelot then Tristan would-"

"It's not my place to tell." Tristan said coldly. He stalked off.

"Something's wrong," said Gawain. "They did something to Lancelot."

"Something bad," Bors added grimly.

Arthur watched Tristan walk away and wondered.

* * *

Arthur pulled his cloak about him as he made his way to the stables. He ran across the courtyard, his boots –with iron-shod toes- clattered on the stone.

Tristan was exactly where he was expected, for once, sitting on the dirt floor, covered in grime and cleaning a saddle lovingly: his cloth working small circles across the leather, leaving a deep honey-brown shine behind it. Arthur almost smiled.

"What is it?" asked Tristan without looking up.

"Can I have a word?" Arthur asked.

Tristan continued with his task but did incline his head. It was a slight movement but Arthur understood it to mean 'yes'.

"What happened to Lancelot? You may not want to say it in front of the others but I hope that you might feel able to tell me."

This time Tristan did look up. His eyes met Arthur's but he didn't speak.

"Tell me," Arthur demanded. "I shall order it."

"And I shall not speak." Tristan's eyes were dark. "I have never disobeyed an order but if you make me, I shall not hesitate."

In the face of this defiance, Arthur turned away- he was touched, angry, and desperate: far too many emotions at once.

"I shall ask Lancelot," he said sadly. "He will tell me."

"He may."

Arthur left and Tristan took up his horse's bridle to clean. He tried to ignore the feeling that had arisen in his chest: a great heat as if from too much ale and yet there was a nervous edge to it. Tristan wasn't used to feeling like this.

Was it love? How could he possibly know?

* * *

Arthur knocked on Lancelot's door. "It's me," he announced. 

He knocked a second time, then a third. "Lancelot? Are you in there?"

"Not now, Arthur. Tomorrow maybe."

Arthur stared at the door for a moment, debating with himself. Should he call out again? Give reasons to be admitted? What sort of reasons could he come up with anyway? _Let me in because you're my best friend. Let me in because I want to help you._

_Let me in because I need you._

Arthur didn't say anything and the door didn't open. In that minute, it seemd to him as if twelve inches of oak might as well be the entire world.He felt cut off from Lancelot. He tried to convince himself that his friend was on the other side of the door but for some reason the notion would not stay in his head.

Arthur walked away.

He didn't exactly walk in any particular direction and yet he found himself on the wall of the battlements. He leant on the wall and wondered why he felt empty. After all, he knew he should be happy. Everything he had prayed for had come true. Everything he had asked for had been granted him. Lancelot was alive; he would live to fight another day- another battle.

No, Arthur corrected himself. Their battles were over and the green pastures of peace spread out at their feet. His friend was here and alive and yet this ridiculous emptiness seemed to have settled inside of him. God, what he wouldn't give for human contact! A manly pat on the shoulder, a backslapping embrace… Maybe he could hold Lancelot and tell him it was over; tell him everything would be just fine.

Because it would be. Lancelot had been through Hell and come out the other side. It wasn't supposed to be possible but he had done it. Arthur realised he was being ungrateful and he screwed up his eyes to pray.

_O Lord, in Heaven above,_

_I thank you for bringing him home._

_Father, please grant him the strength to recover from his ordeal_

_And let the strength to help him be mine._

_Lord, I would give my life for him._

_Take everything I have, take everything but not him._

Arthur closed his eyes even tighter. He took a deep breath and then another and willed himself calm.

"_Thank you, Lord, for saving him_."

"God didn't save him- I did." That was Tristan beside him. The man was stealth itself; all silent footsteps, shallow breathing.

"And I'm grateful for it," said Arthur, a little too formally. "With all my heart," he added.

_The heart is ugly and bloody and red and bruised, _Tristan thought but did not say. He leant over the ramparts next to Arthur.

"I don't want your thanks," he growled.

"What do you want?"

"To tell you I'm leaving." Tristan looked up at the sky. "Not tomorrow –there's a storm coming- but dawn the next day."

Arthur turned, looked at Tristan and almost wished he hadn't. There was no emotion in that face. The eyes sparkled but neither with mirth nor malice. "To Samartia?" Arthur asked. "Wait for us, then. We'll leave as soon as Lancelot's well."

"Not to Samartia."

"Then where?"

Tristan shrugged, ever nonchalant. "The next war. There's always need for men like me- a mercenary soldier, scout, cavalryman, I'll be in the shield wall if I must-"

Arthur cut him off. "-Why seek out death?" he asked.

Again, the nonchalant shrug, the expressionless voice. _A man devoid of feelings_. "Tell me exactly what is it that is so wonderful about this world, that I should fear to leave it?" Tristan didn't expect an answer. He began to walk off.

"What about Lancelot?!" Arthur called after him.

Tristan turned with hawk-like grace and precision. "I'll see him before I go."

He left, looking very much like a bird of prey. To a casual onlooker -indeed to Arthur himself - Tristan looked the same as he always did. The man was uncannily adept at disguising his feelings.

The fact that he had fallen in love was scarcely visible.

For Tristan, love was just another invisible wound.

_Tbc…_


	7. In The Dead Hours

Thank you Kaelynn Perth, L J Groundwater, Camreyn, Demus, GaBo0, Shauna, Goody and skinnyrita. I love you all and I'm sorry for taking an unbelievably long time with this chapter. But don't worry! I now have the director's cut King Arthur and am feeling inspired!! On with the story- and the tentative beginnings of the love triangle…

**Chapter Seven**

**Lancelot **

It was that deep time of night and the whole world, or so it seemed to Lancelot, was asleep. His room wasn't as black as it had been before thanks to the orange embers of Tristan's fire and the little light they cast but that was small comfort. There were shadows in the room; shadows of men, or rather giants that were coming for him- childish fears, Lancelot knew, but that didn't stop him trembling. He sat upright and drew his blanket up to his chin. He gazed around his room, wide-eyed with huge black pupils.

All this time, Lancelot knew that however terrifying being awake might be, it was nothing compared with falling asleep. Yes, anything was better than facing the nightmares. He had to stay awake. Lancelot counted to one hundred and then back down from one hundred to zero. Then he counted in twos and then in fours, which was marginally more difficult. He lost interest after a while, however, and his eyes fell to dwelling on the room's shadows: the big one he could glimpse out of the corner of hisleft eye, the smaller one straight ahead. The latter resembled Cynric.

A while longer and Lancelot's eyelids began to feel heavy and then to droop. His head gave a violent nod on to his chest and he forced himself awake again. He focused on the pain of his injuries –his pain was surely enough to keep anyone awake- but no, even that had grown dull: the burning turned to an aching heat like the embers ofTristan's fire. Lancelot sighed heavily, knowing what Arthur would say._ "Fear won't banish fear, Lancelot. Only comfort can do that."_

And so Lancelot's thoughts turned to his commander. He thought of Arthur laughing at one of Bors' crude jokes or the merciless teasing of Galahad: but then, come to think of it, Arthur's laugh had always seemed a little reluctant; a little too reserved. His smile was the same: never too broad, sometimes warm and gentle, sometimes grim. Never carefree- or at least not so for many years. And there had been too many lines etched on Arthur's face as they had rode back to the Wall. He was getting old, perhaps, or just weary. _I shall have to ask him how old he is_, Lancelot realised. It was a shock to find he did not know.

With images of Arthur swimming before his eyes, Lancelot could ward off sleep no longer.

**Arthur**

Arthur was also lying awake in bed, although his thoughts were more preoccupied with concern than with fear.

Not to say that Arthur was not afraid because he was. His concern about losing Lancelot was a form of fear in itself. In the past Arthur had worried about losing his best friend in mental terms: becoming estranged from him through their differences in opinion. They'd always argued, of course- mostly about religion but sometimes about Rome too and sometimes about mundane things like battle tactics and where to make camp. This time was different. Never before had Lancelot refused to see him. **Never.**

It made Arthur think that something serious must be wrong with his friend. He just couldn't imagine what. He'd thought of every torture device he'd ever come across but none could have been used on Lancelot, who only had a few bruises (albeit nasty black ones) to show for his suffering. And what could be so bad about a few bruises, after all? He'd seen Lancelot looking worse in the past. Only last summer he had been forced to lie on his front for a week after incurring an extremely painful sword slash to the lower back. It had required nearly forty stitches and Lancelot had smiled through the whole thing. Even before that, he'd endured the unenviable task of having an arrow removed from deep in his groin by a shaky-handed Galahad.

No, everything indicated that Lancelot was unafraid of pain: physical pain at least. A few bruises –okay, an especially violent beating- would not be enough to invoke a personality change in his friend. Something had to be seriously wrong.

But what?

Arthur climbed out of bed and paced around his room. It was freezing but he paid no heed to the icy air on his bare arms and legs. He couldn't rest until he understood what was going on with Lancelot_. If only Tristan would tell-_

Arthur stopped his pacing. Almost immediately he began to shiver but he had a feeling this was to do with something more than the cold. _Tristan. _Tristan knew what was wrong with Lancelot. How did Tristan know?

_Lancelot must have told Tristan._

Arthur felt the vague prickling of his throat that heralded the arrival of tears. He swallowed deeply and then blinked several times. The tears faded but some other emotion lingered. Not anger, not really grief.

_Lancelot wasn't turning away from Tristan._

The emotionwas jealousy.

And by God, it was the strangest thought that Arthur had ever had but once it came it was stuck in his mind. Something about is screamed the word 'truth' at him and after a while he came to accept it as such.

_I'm jealous of Tristan, _Arthur realised.

**Tristan**

"Tristan," Bors had said in one of his more perceptive moments, "never sleeps."

It wasn't exactly true but it wasn't entirely false either. Tristan liked the night. In fact, if he had to choose between living a life in the light and living one in the dark, he would invariably choose the dark every time.

At this moment in time, he was sitting on a hilltop to the south east of the fort, staring up at the full moon and thinking- mostly about the night but also about Lancelot. The man fascinated him, although the reason why was almost indefinable. He thought it could be Lancelot's beauty: beauty that didn't detract from the fact that the man was a killer; deadly like Tristan himself. There was none of the weakness in Lancelot that Tristan had come to expect in women. There was vulnerability, true, but that wasn't about weakness- that was a factor of mortality that belonged to all.

And then there was the passion and the fire that was inherent in everything Lancelot did: Lancelot had the ability to _feel _in a way that Tristan had never had.

Until now.

Tristan knew he felt something for Lancelot that he'd never felt for anybody before. He'd defined it as love before and maybe it was. Certainly, he felt the desire to protect his fellow knight, coupled with an even greater desire to wrap his arms round him. This was something new for Tristan: something worrying but at the same time exciting. Whatever it was, Tristan knew what he wanted.

He leapt upright and was soon running towards Hadrian's Wall on swift feet.

**Lancelot**

Soon thoughts of Arthur vanished from Lancelot's dreams and his sleep grew increasingly fitful.

After a time, he dreamt that he was wandering through a deep patch of woodland with Tristan by his side.

_"Don't leave me here," he begged Tristan. _

_Tristan moved closer to him and their shoulders brushed together. "I have to," Tristan said. "One day you'll understand."_

_"If you leave me now," Lancelot warned him. "I'll never escape from this wood." He grasped Tristan's hand in his own. "If you leave me, I won't survive."_

"_You will." Tristan pulled his hand away from Lancelot's. "Just remember: follow the path until you reach the crossroads, then turn East." _

"_You can't leave me. You really can't…" Lancelot reached out again for Tristan's hand but instead grasped at air. He turned and found that Tristan had vanished. "Damn you!" Lancelot was suddenly angry. "DAMN YOU!!" he screamed. His words echoed through the woods, as if to torment him. "Damn you, Tristan," he whispered. _

_He continued along the woodland path for what seemed like a long time. He gradually became more and more nervous. The trees appeared to be leaning inwards. The air became hotter and somehow thicker until it seemed to Lancelot as if he was not walking but rather wading along the path._

_Finally, he arrived at a crossroads. "Turn East," Lancelot told himself. Then he realised he had no idea which way East was._

_"TRISTAN"" he screamed. "TRISTAN!!!" There was no reply. Lancelot fell to his knees. "Won't somebody help me?" he asked. "Somebody. Anybody."_

_Lancelot remained on his knees for many minutes. At last, a voice came to him. It sounded like Arthur. "Follow the path your heart chooses," said the voice. Lancelot, seeing no alternative, climbed to his feet and turned down the left-hand path, which seemed less forboding._

_He walked for perhaps two hundred paces, his throat dry and his palms sweating, until the path suddenly turned a corner and he found himself on the edge of a clearing. Before him, in the patch of open ground, was assembled the entire Saxon army._

_Lancelot turned to run but found the way blocked by Cynric._

_"I see you've come back for more…" Cynric stepped forward. "You always were a little whore…"_

Lancelot awoke suddenly. His breath came in fast gasps and he was drenched in sweat but he didn't dare to move any of the blankets that were pulled up to his chin. In fact, he could scarcely find the courage to move an inch of his body, once he noticed that the Cynric-shaped shadow across the room was still there.

"Help me," Lancelot whispered. His terror did not abate because the nightmare had ended. Instead it grew with every passing second. He longed to call out for somebody but feared nobody would come.

He longed for Arthur.

But then he longed for Tristan more. It seemed easier to wish for a saviour than a friend.

"Please come, Tristan."

At that moment there was a dull thump and his door swung open. The lock was broken. Lancelot opened his mouth to scream as a dark figure appeared in the doorway.

"Don't cry out," Tristan said softly.

Lancelot bit back the scream but didn't say anything in greeting because he was too caught up in Tristan's spell. For a moment, there was magic in the air and it glimmered like molten silver. It was only for a second though, and then Lancelot blinked to clear his vision and the silver stars before his eyes disappeared.

"I came," Tristan said. His voice was so low that it took Lancelot a moment to unravel his words.

"Thank you," Lancelot whispered, his own voice catching in his throat. "You always do come," he added, remembering how it had felt to lie all bloody and forlorn in a baggage camp in the middle of the Saxon army. He had thought then that Tristan was the Angel of Death. In retrospect, it seemed rather silly.

"I do." Tristan knelt by Lancelot's bed. He seemed surprised when the younger knight grasped his hand but then he smiled faintly, as if recalling a happy memory. He leant down and touched his lips to Lancelot's own hand and then he pulled the trembling man towards him and took him into his arms.

**_Tbc…_**


	8. Home Is A Person

Thanks to all of the people who reviewed Chapter Seven: Ivory Novelist, L J Groundwater (An additional thanks for some interesting emails), Kaelynn-Perth (Don't worry: Guinevere's completely out of the picture!) Demus, skinnyrita, Deathtoallclovers, Yuki Bombay, Camreyn (I really love to read your reviews! They're so detailed and insightful. I think by Tristan's vulnerability comment he meant that everyone is vulnerable, as Lancelot's rape has shown. However, Lancelot isn't weak because of what's happened; on the contrary, his attempts to cope have shown himself to be strong. As for Arthur's view on rape, that's to come shortly…) Shauna (Arthur and Lancelot have never been romantically involved. At the moment Arthur's concerned about losing his closest friend- of course that's all about to change, hee hee…) iMaxed ('Slash-tastic'- couldn't have put that better myself! And thanks for your offer. I'm okay for a beta-reader at the minute but if it changes I'll definitely ask for help) Kay, tristanzgirl and Lyowyn. 

Warning: Adult content.

**Chapter Eight**

Even as Lancelot found peace sleeping in Tristan's arms, others were wide-awake and oppressed by the melancholic atmosphere that lingered throughout the half-abandoned fortress.

Galahad drained the last of his ale messily, so that drops fell into his beard and glimmered like jewels in the candlelight. He slammed the tankard down onto the table but the sudden noise did little to startle any of his companions. Curled up in the crook of his right arm lay Edolie, the blonde-haired girl he had rescued from the advancing Saxons. She slept soundly with a look of sweet contentment on her young face.

Against Galahad's left side there was a much heavier weight: that of his closest friend Gawain. The older knight was not asleep -after sharing a room for so many years Galahad could tell this much from the rhythm of his breathing- but he seemed little disposed for conversation. Even Bors, on his ninth pint and still going strong, was silent.

"What on this earth's up with you lot?" demanded Vanora, as she re-appeared with yet another jug of ale. "From your faces you'd think the world was about to end!"

"It is," said Gawain, speaking up unexpectedly. He shifted his weight against Galahad's side. "In a few weeks all of this," he waved a lazy hand to indicate the fortress, "will be turned to dust."

Vanora shook her head at him. "Surely the Saxons will occupy it." She said this as though it was some consolation. "This building, this Wall, these stones… They'll live into the future; tell our story when we're all naught but memories."

Silence reigned supreme for a few more minutes, giving Bors time to gulp down his tenth pint.

"Saxons," Gawain said eventually, "Burn and destroy. I can see it in my mind's eye: charred walls and blackened rubble." He reached for his tankard and drank deeply. "Arthur's little chapel smote to the ground…"

"We'll have to abandon the wine store!" Galahad suddenly exclaimed. Edolie stirred and mumbled something in her sleep, but did not awake.

"I weren't ever going to leave this wretched isle," said Bors. His words were slurred but the meaning shone through, as clear as winter sunlight. "This land is mine. There's so much of me blood in the soil that it must be. Can't not be."

"Practically home," said Gawain.

"No it isn't!" Galahad was shouting suddenly and he didn't know why. Edolie sat up and rubbed her tired eyes. Gawain edged away from his friend; he knew when Galahad needed space. "Home isn't a place!"

"What about Sarmatia?"

Galahad shook his head. "All these years I've been yearning for home and I never realised…" he trailed off.

"Realise what?"

"Home isn't a place, it's the people in it. This isn't about Sarmatia; it's about the people we left behind there all those years ago. Families, clan… They're the reason for going home. I don't care about leaving Britain – in fact, the sooner the better – just as long as we're all leaving together. No more deaths…"

Galahad could say no more. He sighed and stroked a hand through Edolie's long hair until the girl fell back asleep. After a time, Gawain settled back against him and seemed on the verge of speaking for some time. Across the table, Vanora had settled on Bor's lap: his face was buried in her bosom, kissing the pale skin, even as she whispered something in his ear.

After a time Gawain said what was on his mind. "I'm proud of you," he said softly, in a voice that only Galahad caught.

"I'm proud of you too."

"It'll be good to go home again with you and…" Gawain turned and ventured a glance at the girl sleeping against his friend's other side. "…Edolie I guess."

Galahad grinned. "I can't help it if women find me irresistible!"

"Brat!"

There was a sudden commotion as Bors unceremoniously dumped Vanora off his knee and rose unsteadily to his feet. His eyes blazed. "You're mad, woman!"

Vanora shook her head. She looked fiercely beautiful as she faced her lover. "I'm right, you know. Women are never wrong about these things."

"Another baby, hey Bors?" said Galahad, grinning stupidly. He liked children.

"It's about Lancelot," snapped Vanora.

"It's bloody craziness, is what it is!"

Vanora ignored Bors and turned to Gawain, evidently seeing him as the voice of reason. "I myself thought that I was wrong. That it couldn't happen to Lancelot- womaniser that he is. But that doesn't matter! It can happen to anybody…"

"Not him," Bors interrupted.

"…Even him. It's there written on his face. The fear, shyness… "

"He's been beaten. Tortured. What do you expect?!"

"…Isolation, need, despair. It's all there and none of you blind idiots can see it!"

"What is it, Vanora?" asked Gawain, with a feeling of dread settling in his stomach.

"He's been raped."

The silence was louder than any noise. Galahad moved away from Gawain, and then stood up suddenly. Edolie awoke and fell to the floor with a cry. Gawain also stood up. He stared at Vanora: there was sincerity evident in her voice and yet what she said could surely not be possible. He glanced at Bors. The big knight was gulping down ale straight from the jug. Turning to Galahad, he saw a mixture of anger and confusion. Finally, he looked back at Vanora. She gave him an apologetic nod.

And still nobody spoke.

Galahad reached out a hand, and settled it on Gawain's bicep.He squeezed tightly. "No…" murmured the younger knight.

Edolie, her sleepiness replaced with a look of wide-eyed fear, climbed to her feet. "The Saxons raped a field boy," she said in her soft voice. She hadn't said a lot since being rescued and everyone listened to her words. "They caught him but he escaped after. He ran back to our village, naked and bloody."

Vanora nodded. "It has been known before. They do it as a form of torture."

The sound of pottery breaking drew the company's attention to Bors. He was glaring at his wife as he stood amidst the fragments of the ale jug. "Things like that don't happen to real people: to Lancelot," he said thickly. "Not our Lancey; he's one of us."

"None of you are invincible." Vanora's gentle voice had turned to iron. Cold, firm,everyoneknew she was telling the truth.

Gawain spoke up. "Somebody should tell Arthur. He has a right to know."

"You," Galahad insisted. "I wouldn't know what to say. Bors neither."

"When do I tell him?"

"Tell him now," Bors growled. Vanora had found her way back into his arms and Galahad was once again clutching the blonde girl, Edolie.

Gawain looked backwards and forwards between the two couples. "Okay," he said at last.

He found a flaming torch in a bracket, which he took. He padded along the fortresses' corridors as silently as he could but somehow every one of his footfalls sounded like the thud of a war drum or the impact of a mace against armour plate. He had none of Tristan's flair for moving unheard and unseen.

After what seemed like an age, Gawain turned to the right and set off down a long stone passageway with crude oak doors evenly spaced along the right-hand side. He passed the door to his and Galahad's chambers (shared despite the many free rooms available). Two doors along was Bors' room, deserted in favour of a big chamber downstairs where noisy kids were more welcome.

Then what had been Dagonet's room. And Percival and Kay's. Bedivere's, Lucan's… All of them empty now.

Gawain froze as he came to Lancelot's chamber. The door had been broken off its hinges; it rested on the ground half in the passageway and half in the room. Gawain's heart started to beat faster. He slowly withdrew his dagger from his belt and held both it and his torch before him as he advanced. He peered through the doorway.

The sight that greeted his eyes left him both relieved and startled. On the bed, leaning against the far wall was Tristan with his obsidian eyes sparkling in the torchlight. Lancelot lay half-upright in Tristan's lap, his back to Tristan's chest. His chest rose and fell evenly as he slept. Tristan stroked his hair softly with one hand; the other was entwined with Lancelot's own.

Tristan stared at Gawain. Gawain bowed his head and continued down the corridor. Tristan's gaze had unsettled him.

At last, he reached Arthur's room and froze once again.

_"Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord: Lord, hear my voice.  
Let Thy ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication."_

The door was shut but the heady aroma of incense hung in the air of the passage nonetheless and Arthur's words were more than testament to what he was doing. Gawain turned away, knowing that if it was possible to disturb a sleeper, it was infinitely better to leave someone praying to himself. There was always tomorrow to tell Arthur what had happened. At dawn, Gawain promised himself. _At dawn I'll tell him_.

If Gawain had entered Arthur's quarters, or found himself able to see through four inches of oak, he would have viewed his Commander prostrated on the ground with his arms spread open beseechingly. One hand clutched a crucifix on an iron chain and the other a small figure of a mouse; the trinket dropped by Lancelot when the Saxons captured him.

_"Glory be to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.  
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen."_

Arthur sat up and touched the hand holding the crucifix to his head, his chest and then to either shoulder to form the shape of the cross. The thick smoke of incense that coiled around his body asit rose to the ceiling devoured the movement.

Tears streamed down Arthur's cheeks.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen." _He finished with the Latin that he had heard so often as a boy: finding it as a warm blanket in the depths of winter; an object from home in a foreign country; the language of Christianity in a Pagan world. The Latin was comforting but the voice that spoke shook with suppressed emotion.

* * *

Tents were scarce in the Saxon camp. The largest belonged to King Cerdic. A half-dozen of the fiercest fighters –the men who had distinguished themselves in past battles by killing until the dead formed impassable walls on every side; until the whites of their eyes were shot through with red veins and their swords dropped from nerveless hands- also had tents. Smaller, dirtier, but tents all the same. 

Cynric had a tent too, which he shared with a small man with features too dark to be entirely Saxon. This tent was pitched on the very edges of the camp, far away from anyone of importance. This was just one way in which Cynric, the failure, had found himself ostracized.

At the moment, Cynric was fucking a large woman of perhaps thirty years, while his darker-featured companion looked on.

"She's a beast!" laughed the companion.

"Beauty was never a requirement…" Cynric growled.

His companion shrugged. "Still, I can't help but long for that knight, the dead pretty one. Now what was his name?"

"Lancelot." This last word was a breathless gasp. Cynric gave a shuddering groan and then withdrew. He knocked the woman to the floor where she lay moaning. "You want her?" Cynric asked his lieutenant as he sprawled back on his bed of furs.

"I'd rather fuck-" Cynric's companion grinned. "-The boy I've got tied up outside."

"Then kill her and bring him in."

The woman was despatched with an eager cut to the neck that left her moaning in a pool of blood but not quite dead. Regardless, Cynric's man hauled her out into the night. He re-appeared dragging a tall thin boy of perhaps seventeen years. The skin of his face was pale and marred only by the wispy traces of a first beard. His hair, however, was a mass of dark curls.

"See the resemblance, do you?"

"Aye." Cynric grinned. "I think I'll call him Lancelot." Both men cackled. "Strip," Cynric ordered.

They watched with anticipation as the boy stripped off his clothing with trembling fingers.

"We could use him for practice," suggested Cynric's lieutenant. "Practice for when we track down Arthur's little whore again." Malice sparkled in his black eyes but his expression soon turned to horror as Cynric shook his head.

"You always were stupid," Cynric said. "No subtlety."

"Well, what the fuck are we going to do?"

Cynric bared his teeth in anticipation. "We're not going to touch a hair on Lancelot's head. Oh no, he's going to suffer something far worse."

"What?"

Cynric was gleeful as he related his plan. He'd thought about it carefully; thought about why Lancelot had let himself be captured in the first place. "He's going to watch us kill the one he loves."

"Right. So who do we kill?"

"Arthur."

Cynric's eyes settled on the boy. "After all, everyone all know that revenge is a dish best served cold…"

Miles away at the Wall, Lancelot slept and Arthur prayed and Tristan watched.

**_Tbc..._**


	9. Lancelot's Confession

Sorry this took so long- my computer's been broken! Thank you to all the incredibly kind people who submitted a review. You guys are the greatest: Ivory Novelist (Gawain and Galahad are just best friends), Demus, LJ Groundwater (There's going to be some mild slash from now onwards), Camreyn (Thanks again! When I said 'dead pretty' I meant 'really pretty'. It must just be a colloquialism where I live), Lyowyn (I'm afraid that you're going to have to learn to love Arthur! In this story at least…) ElleloveMax, hornofgondor2, evilminx (I'm glad I have at least one reader who actually likes Arthur as much as Tristan!) Shauna (I'd venture to say that however much Lancelot may need Tristan as his saviour, he still loves Arthur more at heart…) skinnyrita, forgottenmagick (Congratulations! You are my one hundredth reviewer! Sadly, there's no prize…), Allegra (I'm afraid there's a bit of slash coming up- I hope you can bear with it!) and Gypsy Luv. 

**Chapter Nine**

"What the-?"

Arthur was momentarily alarmed to find himself, upon awakening, lying face down on a stone floor. He shivered as the cold first hit him and it was an effort to coax life into his frozen limbs. He hauled himself to his feet and rubbed his goose-pimpled arms for a few seconds before groping for a fur-edged cloak folded across the back of one of the two chairs in his room. It was usually something he reserved for formal occasions. Nevertheless, he wrapped it tightly around himself now and walked about his room while his icy body slowly began to warm up.

It was a while before Arthur could think clearly enough to ponder why exactly he had fallen asleep not in his bed but on the floor. He considered the idea that he had been knocked unconscious before dismissing it as utterly implausible. Perhaps he had collapsed. It was not unknown for young men, even physically strong knights, to faint. This latter idea appeared more convincing but it didn't answer the question 'why had he been out of bed?'

Only then, did Arthur's sleep-muddled mind recollect his concern of the previous night. He had been pacing up and down, trying to find a solution to a problem. Yes! Then he had been praying for many hours, kneeling on his stone floor before God. He must have fallen asleep as he prayed. But why had he been praying, anyway?

Then it all came back to Arthur in a split-second: how Lancelot had refused to see him; how he risked losing his oldest friend, how he was jealous of Tristan. It was ridiculous, really. He called himself a Christian and yet he had forgotten everything he knew of his own religion.

_Jealousy is a sin. Period. _

"Tenth commandment," Arthur murmured. "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's possessions".

But then that was equally ridiculous. Lancelot wasn't anybody's possession. He never had been and he never would be.

"I risk losing my mind," Arthur whispered.

* * *

It was not the cold but the piercing sunlight slashing his eyelids that first woke Lancelot. He moaned and shaded his eyes with his hand. 

"You should not fear the light," said a quiet voice. The words startled Lancelot, who sat up and then smiled to see Tristan sitting cross-legged on the far end of his bed. For a moment, he fancied he could see flames leaping merrily in Tristan's dark eyes but then he realised that they were but reflections from the fierce little fire that Tristan had lit in the grate.

"Good morning," Lancelot said. His smile broadened as he realised, once again, that he was safe. "I must thank you for last night… and for the fire as well."

Tristan shrugged.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Tristan shook his head. "I'm not tired," he said. "I watched."

"What?"

"You."

A creeping blush spread across Lancelot's cheeks and he turned away.

_Madness_, he realised.

He turned back to Tristan who was watching him with a faintly amused expression.

"Well…" said Lancelot, suddenly at a loss for something to say. "Um. There's a chill in the air, don't you think?"

Tristan shrugged. "It's winter." He seemed to feel that these two words constituted an answer.

"Still, it's an uncommonly bad winter."

"They're all bad."

"Yes, but this one is-"

Tristan silenced Lancelot by moving closer and placing a finger to hislips. For a moment – for several long seconds, in fact – both men were frozen. They were seconds of stark clarity for Lancelot as he realised suddenly that the very air of the room crackled with desire. He stared at Tristan and wondered if the other man could feel it too. What did this mean? What could it mean for his relationship with the quiet enigma that was Tristan? And what in turn wouldit mean for his relationship with the other knights? With Arthur?

There were too many questions. Or perhaps there were too many feelings? Lancelot pulled away from Tristan's touch on his lips.

"Ahem." The clearing of a throat. Both men turned round to find Arthur standing in the doorway. He wore a crimson cloak with dark fur round the collar and a plain golden clasp. "Good morning." It was unclear from his expression whether or not he had been a witness to their 'moment'.

Tristan gave a cursory nod in acknowledgment of his Commander. Lancelot didn't say anything. He just glanced at Arthur and at Tristan and then at Arthur again and realised for the first time that was more than one meaning to the word'torn'.

_Ripped apart._

_Torn in two._

_Torn between friend and saviour, between light and darkness, love and desire…_

"Are you well, Lancelot?" Arthur asked.

"Mmm."

Arthur nodded. He opened his mouth to say something more and then shut it abruptly.

Finally, he mumbled a comment about sending someone to fix the door. Then he turned to Tristan. "A word, if you please." He left with the certainty of a man used to being followed.

Tristan made to leave but a strong hand grasped his arm.

"You'll come back to me before tonight?" Lancelot asked. He looked imploringly at Tristan and seeing the questions in the older knight's face, he sought to explain himself. "There are no nightmares when you're with me."

It was odd then that Tristan suddenly turned his back on Lancelot. "Of course I'll stay," he said, as if there had never been any question of it.

There was a definite note of thickness in Tristan's voice.

* * *

Once Tristan had gone, Lancelot crouched in front of the fire and basked in the warmth that enveloped him. After a while, however, the tranquillity he had found in Tristan's arms disappeared. Inadvertently, Lancelot found himself trembling and casting wary glances over his shoulder at increasingly frequent intervals. 

_You're going to spend your whole life looking back over your shoulder._

_Coward._

A voice in his head was mocking him, taunting him. Lancelot backed away from the fire until he reached the safest corner of the room- the one furthest away from the door. Even in the daylight hours he felt himself gripped by an irrational fear.

_Scared I'm coming for you, whore?_

_You should be._

Lancelot covered his ears with his hands and shook his head in a vain attempt to stop the voices. _I'm crazy_, he decided. _Just look at me. Backed into a corner by whispers in my own mind…_

Away from the fire, Lancelot's wounds began to ache with cold. Surprisingly, the most pain came not from that which he had come to think of as the 'unmentionable wound' but instead from his rib cage. The pain grew until it blocked out all other thoughts, all other fears…

* * *

Arthur led Tristan up onto the battlements. He leant on the wall and looked out across the country to the south, gentle and green in comparison to the wild north. "Do you still wish to leave us?" he asked. 

Tristan said nothing. He knew he had come to a crossroads: he knew what he said now dictated the rest of his life. On the one hand lay war and freedom that would ultimately lead to death; on the other hand was life in chains: chains not forged of iron but of love.

But chains, all the same.

"Do you not have an answer for me?" demanded Arthur. He sounded at the end of his tether and his voice only reflected his appearance. His face looked old and craggy. A growth of stubbly beard, faintly streaked with grey, covered his firm chin.

"I do not."

Arthur sighed. "So you are not leaving at dawn?"

The answer given by Tristan was perfectly honest. "I do not know," he said.

"We will all have to leave here soon. More go every day: grooms, garrison soldiers...We don't even have a cook any more!"

Tristan smiled faintly. "We have Galahad…"

Arthur smiled too, although it did not spread to his eyes.

"You really do care for him?" Tristan said. It wasn't intended as a question: a blind man would have been able to sense the affection Arthur felt towards Lancelot.

"I care for all my knights,"Arthur said.

Tristan shook his head. "But Lancelot…"

"I can't stand it." _Losing him…_

"I know."

Tristan placed a hand on his commander's shoulder. "I don't want to hurt him. You have to understand, that's the last thing I want."

And with these words, Tristan returned to the man he was afraid to love. Several minutes later, Arthur descended from the battlements and headed to the stables where hefound his other three knights, huddled together and sharing conspiratorial whispers.

"What's going on?" Arthur asked.

Bors, Gawain and Galahad looked up at him with guilt – or else pity – written across their faces.

"Well, what is it?"

Gawain was the one who spoke. "Arthur," he said, "you've lead us through battle after battle. You've never let us down. We've fought together and we've watched our fellow knights be killed all around us. We've snatched victory from the jaws of defeat- life from the jaws of death. We've served you loyally for fifteen years."

"And I thank you, Knights," said Arthur, with a bow of his head.

The sound of singing reached them faintly. The voice was Vanora's and the song was the same one that she had sung the night before their last mission. It seemed such a long time ago.

_"**Land of bear and land of eagle**_

_"**Land that gave us birth and blessing"**_

"For this loyalty we ask only that you promise us one thing."

"Anything."

_**"Land that pulled us ever homewards**_

_"**We will go home across the mountains…"**_

Gawain glanced at Bors. "You must believe that we are telling the truth, even if you do not like what we tell."

"I promise," Arthur assured them.

_"_**_We will go home  
_**

"_**We will go home"**_

Gawain glanced at Galahad for a moment, as he gathered his courage. Then he looked at Arthur and took a deep breath. "It's Lancelot," he began. "The Saxons, they-"

The words were impossible to say. Gawain shook his head.

"The Saxons raped him," Bors said. "Evil bastards."

Arthur stared at him with eyes that were shadowed. "Raped him?" It was obvious from his tone that this was not something he had ever considered: that a distant physical possibility had suddenly become a reality. "Raped him?"

The three knights nodded.

_"**We**_**_ will go home across the mountains  
_**

"_**We will go home, singing our song…"**_

The singing died out and Arthur, at last, felt he understood.

* * *

Tristan didn't say anything on finding Lancelot shivering in a corner and groaning softly in pain. He took a coarse blanket off the bed and pulling Lancelot to his feet, he wrapped it around the shaking knight in a tender gesture. 

"Bastard son of a bitch," Lancelot growled under his breath. His words were clearly aimed at someone other than Tristan.

"Do you hurt?" Tristan asked.

"My ribs."

Tristan nodded. "I'll take a look. Remove your tunic."

For some reason this request startled Lancelot. He knew Tristan had seen him stark naked before- even since the rape. There was nothing to fear in Tristan's gaze and yet-

And yet what? Something was different now. Since this morning something –something indefinable – had changed between Tristan and himself.

Lancelot felt suddenly shy. _Like a blushing virgin_, he thought wryly. _If only_…

"I'm not going to bite!" Tristan said in a falsely cheerful voice. His voice changed, however, as he realised exactly what he had said. "Sorry. That was-"

"A perfectly reasonable remark," Lancelot interrupted. "I can't bear to hear any more apologies…" He plucked up the courage to remove his tunic and stood nervously for a moment as Tristan's eyes openly roamed across the bruises marking his torso, which was little more than a sea of black and purple. "A little ugly, eh?" Lancelot tried to laugh but the sound caught in his throat.

"Not at all." Tristan turned his gaze to Lancelot's face. "Lift your arms above your head," he instructed. Lancelot obeyed and Tristan slowly reached out both his hands. "If you don't mind?" He waited for the terse nod of approval before he placed a hand on either side of Lancelot's rib cage and carefully ran them up and down feeling for breaks.

Lancelot shuddered at the touch but said nothing. Tristan's hands weren't hot and grasping like Cynric's had been. They were cool and gentle and moved like ghosts across Lancelot's tortured flesh. What Lancelot realised, in his second moment of revelation of the day, was how intimate this action was.

"Not broken," Tristan saidafter several minutes of silence. He moved his hands away. "It's bound to hurt, though. Whoever did this…" He gestured at the bruises. "…Had a fist of iron. I'd imagine he cracked a couple of your-"

"It was Cerdic," said Lancelot suddenly. "Their King… the leader… He's huge. Giant blood, or something…"

Tristan didn't say anything, although he did give a slow nod of encouragement.

And in that moment Lancelot knew that he had to get everything off his chest. He grasped Tristan's hands and dragged him towards the fire. He felt suddenly cold at the prospect of recounting all that had happened.

"They kept me in the baggage tent," he began. "I heard the boards creaking before I saw anything…"

The physical pain in his ribs vanished: lost in the emotional pain of his story.

* * *

"…Then you arrived and I thought you were some sort of Angel." Lancelot gave a sad smile as he reached the end of his narrative. "I think I understand now why Arthur - why Christians – confess their sins. It's a relief: a weight off my heart." 

Tristan looked troubled. "None of this is a sin of yours," he said, shaking his head. "Cerdic's maybe: definitely Cynric's and the other Saxon bastards too." Anger was creeping into Tristan's voice. "None of this is your fault."

"But it is," Lancelot said. "I brought this upon myself." Tears appeared as if from nowhere and streamed down his cheeks. "It's my fault entirely."

"How?"

"It's punishment," Lancelot whispered, leaning forwards. He was addicted to confessing now; ready to tell the one secret he'd never ever voiced before.

"Whatever for?"

Lancelot glanced over his shoulder. He motioned Tristan towards him, as though the walls themselves had ears with which to hear his confession. "All the women in the world could never _satisfy_ me…"

He expected Tristan to run. He expected Tristan to be angry, horrified, disgusted… He expected Tristan to tell him not to be stupid; to tell him that it was unnatural not to fancy women. He expected Tristan to reassure him that he didn't mind, that it was all okay.

He expected a lot of things.

What he did not expect was for Tristan to lean forward with an almost predatory movement and press his lips to Lancelot's in a hard kiss.

**_Tbc…_**


	10. The Frozen Moment

I would like to thank LJ Groundwater, Stahlfan125, Cameryn, Closer Hugo Closer (but how close, I wonder?), God (I never expected anyone so exalted as God to be reading this!) hornofgondor2, The Contessa, Gypsy Luv, Velven, ElleloveMax, methoslover, MerryTyme, mssparrington (thanks times nine, I believe!) and evilminx. Love you all.

This isn't really a chapter so much as an interlude in the angst...

**Chapter Ten**

Their lips were only pressed together for a second but it might as well have been eternity. Afterwards Lancelot did not look at Tristan but remained pressed up against the other man, close enough to feel his heartbeat. His own breathing was shallow as he fought not to disturb the stillest and yet the most charged moment of his life. For once, time seemed superlative- the world had frozen around the two men and their two racing hearts.

In the end, something had to be said. The silence could not last forever and Lancelot's bruised body had begun to ache from too much stillness.

"I didn't expect that," Lancelot said.

"No."

He pulled away from Tristan and walked to the arrow slit in the wall that passed for a window. The sun had vanished but the eastern sky was streaked with orange and pink and red. Towards the west, a purple twilight crept in.

Tristan stood behind Lancelot. He no longer appeared as a predator but rather as a hunted animal, every movement he made was silent and cautious. After a while he extended his hand and rested it on the bare skin at the back of Lancelot's neck, just below the dark curls. Lancelot sighed but said nothing. The touch of Tristan's hand was cool and he felt his flesh pucker beneath it.

"My intention was never to hurt you," Tristan said. His voice had a faraway, lilting quality to it. "I hope I haven't… scared you."

"I'm not afraid." _I should be, but I'm not._

The orange and red of the sky melted softly into purple and then black. The shadow of a crescent moon appeared.

"You might as well be a stranger… for all I know about you." This wasn't exactly fair: Lancelot knew this as he took a careful step backwards, as he let himself sink backwards into Tristan's arms, as he inhaled the scent of pine and soil and straw that belonged to the older man. "Tell me something…"

"Yesterday, I told you something – something bad- about my mother." Now Tristan's voice was so soft and so quiet that it might have been made of moonbeams. "I could tell you something good about her too?"

Lancelot nodded.

"She used to sing- songs about rivers and valleys and countries so very bright with the colour green. She sang while she worked: while she cooked, while she cleaned, while she helped collect the harvest… I can still hear her voice- clear and strong like a lark in springtime."

Tristan nuzzled into Lancelot's neck- stubble rubbed against skin but did not burn. Tristan's breath was warm in Lancelot's ear as he murmured something half-remembered from a distant childhood.

"_Follow the brook that shines like silver. _

"_Bubbling waters into clearest river. _

"She was such a lovely singer._" _Tristan leaned forward and briefly kissed Lancelot's cheek. "If I close me eyes and concentrate, I can still see her face."

This was something Lancelot understood; he often spent whole hours at night trying desperately to recall the faces of the loved ones he had left in Sarmatia.

They grew fainter with the passing of every day.

"I never used to think of you as having feelings," Lancelot told Tristan.

"I have many..."

"What do you want with me?" Lancelot asked him.

"Nothing more than you are willing to give."

Lancelot considered. "There isn't a lot I can offer-"

"I know."

Lancelot turned around to face Tristan. He gave a soft gasp as he studied the older knight's appearance.

The change was as startling as the first green shoots after a barren winter. It was there in the clever dark eyes and the calloused hands that reached towards him.

Once more Lancelot pressed up against Tristan; rejoiced in the sensation of being held without fear.

"You're no longer a mystery," he said.

**_Tbc…_**


	11. Freedom To Live

Sorry for taking so long, guys. I'd like to thank Egyptian Tamer (double thanks for two nice reviews), Ivory Novelist, L J Groundwater, Camreyn (thank you for nagging me! It helps!), hornofgondor2, Gypsy Luv! (thank you twice!), mssparrington, Squallsgurlygurl, Velven, my friend who would like to sleep with Hugo Weaving, ElleloveMax, God (lol- pretzels for Bush!), Lyowyn, Marblez, gwen, forgotten-magick (thank you for two reviews…) keelin (I hope this encourages you to read more slashy goodness!), Green Bird, Jewely and Zuzivlas.

**Chapter Eleven **

**Sunset **

Lancelot clung to Tristan like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood.

"You're no longer a mystery," he had whispered. In one moment, years of reasoning had been torn apart: Tristan was not as wild and free as he had always appeared.

Lancelot remembered Tristan's words of – could it be? – just two days ago:

"_Wild things don't have names."_

Tristan had a name and perhaps he had never been so wild at all. Or perhaps he had waited his whole life to be tamed.

It didn't matter. Lancelot could see the only thing he needed to know as clearly as his reflection in a mirror; he could see it in Tristan's eyes just as he could hear it in Tristan's voice.

His heart laid bare.

Tristan had fallen in love with him.

* * *

"Arthur! Arthur!" Gawain chased his captain through the stone outbuildings. "Won't you speak to me?" he demanded, once he had finally caught up. 

Arthur turned at last. His appearance was made haggard by too much worry and too little sleep. "I'm sorry," he said. It was an unusually empty apology and Gawain swept it quickly aside.

"We must leave soon," he said. "The Saxons could come at any day."

Arthur's voice was weary. "I know."

"I ask your leave to pack."

"You are free, Gawain. Leave when you will."

Gawain watched his Commander's retreating back. He was stunned, if truth be told. In the space of a few days - since Lancelot's capture - Arthur had become a different person. He looked older and somehow shadowed, as if a black cloud constantly hung over him.

Inadvertently, Gawain found himself remembering something from a time so long ago that it now seemed like a dream:

_You never know what you have until you lose it._

Percival had said that or had it been Kay? It scarcely mattered now. The point was that Arthur had nearly lost Lancelot.

Nearly.

* * *

Arthur collapsed on his bed. He lay face down with his head buried in the pillow. The iron buckle of his belt dug into his skin and yet he didn't move. He was too tired; too far gone. 

Still he danced the fine line between sleeping and waking for many minutes, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing.

And then he slipped into another world- so slowly and so gently that the point where sleep ends and dreams begin was nothing more than a blur.

_He found himself in a sunlit glade in the middle of a gentle wood. There was pink and white blossom on the floor and the heady scent of flowers on the air. The sky was the bright cloudless blue of a warm spring and yet there was no birdsong to be heard. _

_A glint of silver caught the corner of Arthur's eye and he turned to find himself looking at the most beautiful thing he had ever seen._

_Lancelot lay on the ground, as naked as the day he was born, amidst the blossom. His skin was dappled by the sunlight that filtered though the branches above. Stray white flower petals had settled in his hair and Arthur's fine silver cross was about his neck and glinting in the light._

_A fallen angel…_

"_Come closer…" Lancelot whispered. Arthur obeyed, kneeling in the soft and slightly damp earth. Without knowing why, he reached out and took a white petal from Lancelot's hair and rubbed it between his fingers._

"_Are you going to kiss me?" Lancelot asked, with his voice like milk and honey._

_Arthur didn't start or act surprised. It was exactly what he had expected; what he had longed for and prayed for. _

_He leaned down and touched his lips to Lancelot's. _

_And Lancelot vanished like smoke on the wind. _

Arthur woke up, his shivering belied by the sweat that coated his body and soaked his hair.

* * *

Gawain crouched on the floor, packing up the few things he had acquired in fifteen years of service to Rome. He neatly folded a light cloak for the spring months, two thin tunics for summer and a pair of spare breeches. On top he placed leather sandals, some glass beads for his mother at home and a wooden horse that Dagonet had whittled for him. 

Fifteen years of service and so few possessions…

Galahad stood in the doorway and watched his friend pack in a surly silence, his arms folded across his chest. After all the years of longing for home he didn't want to leave now it came to it. He didn't want to abandon Britain in ignominy; he didn't want to leave it to the bastard Saxons who had done the unthinkable to one of his friends.

And so Galahad sulked.

"What is your problem?" demanded Gawain. He threw the question over his shoulder.

Galahad sighed and gave up his weight to the doorpost. "It's a long way back," he said. "To Sarmatia, I mean."

"Are you scared?" Gawain waited for the firm denial. For the '_don't be stupid; I'm a grown man' _speech. It never came. He abandoned his packing and turned around to face his friend. "It's an awfully long way back," he said. "Fifteen years back…"

"Aye."

* * *

Bors sat in the stables and rubbed oil into his horse's tack, until the leather was soft and supple. He then gave fetched Lancelot's saddle and gave it the same meticulous attention. Across the room, Arthur's squire, Jols, had set about sharpening every weapon he could lay his hands on, until the fortress echoed with the sound of scraping metal. He had begun the tedious work in the armoury but had soon moved to the stables where the horses and the presence of Bors took away the awful loneliness that now seemed to fill the air. 

"You think there'll be a fight?" Jols asked Bors, as he tested the edge of a knife. It was razor-sharp.

Bors gave a grim smile. "There's always a fight, mate."

Jols nodded. He had expected the answer. "Tell you what, I'll go and get two plates of that stew I can smell."

"Sounds good to me."

The scent of Vanora's cooking was indeed heavy on the air. Meat stewed in ale and twice-cooked bread. It wasn't fine food but at least it was filling.

* * *

Arthur, red-eyed from his troubled sleep, found his way to the kitchen. Wordlessly, Vanora spooned meat onto a huge chunk of bread. She watched as Arthur ate it. 

"You're not well," she said.

"No." Arthur accepted more bread, this time soaked in gravy that trickled down his chin. "Has Lancelot been eating?"

Vanora thought of Tristan's twice daily visits to the kitchen. He always left with two laden plates, one of which always has the softest middle part of the loaf of bread or the most tender cuts of meet. "Tristan takes him food," she told Arthur and then, hesitantly, she added, "It seems our hawk has finally been tamed…"

At the mention of Tristan, Arthur's face fell. He ate the rest of the food in silence, studiously avoiding Vanora's eyes, which were altogether too sharp.

He couldn't, however, avoid Jols. His squire breezed into the room and asked Vanora for two plates of stew. His eyes fell on Arthur.

"You don't look well, sir," he said.

Arthur glanced up at him and tried to change the subject. "You've been sharpening weapons." The sound of blade scraping against stone had been hard to ignore.

"Aye, sir. Good to be prepared- you taught me that."

Arthur's furrowed brow creased even more. "Prepared for what?" he asked.

"Whatever's round the corner, sir."

Arthur nodded. It was a good answer.

Jols gave his Captain his best crooked smile. "I expect it's hard to leave the fort," he said. "After all these years. The place is full of memories."

_One hundred young knights round a table clapping one another on the shoulders. Brothers in arms. _

_Eighty knights, battle-hardened but still smiling, drinking toasts to the glorious dead._

_Fifty knights drowning their sorrows in pot after pot of ale. _

_Twenty knights trying to forget. The grim smiles between men that might be dead come the morrow._

_Six knights with freedom that they are too bitter to enjoy._

"Leaving here has weighed heavily on my mind," Arthur told Jols.

He watched Jols leave and then jumped as Vanora settled a hand on the his shoulder.

"You're a God-awful liar," she said. "I know what troubles you."

"The dead weigh heavily on my mind," Arthur confessed.

"Not only the dead…" Vanora suggested. Her smile knew too much.

Arthur resigned himself to the inevitable conversation as Vanora fetched two pints of ale before perching next to Arthur. She weighed her next words carefully and almost whispered them as if mindful of Arthur's evident embarrassment. "I know you love Lancelot," she said.

"I love him like he's my twin brother- my own kin."

Vanora shook her head. "No you don't."

Arthur didn't look at her. He looked at the table, at his tankard of ale, at his hands, down at the floor.

Eventually, he spoke. "Sometimes I feel... As if I don't know how to feel," he paused and downed his tankard of ale in a series of gulps. "And sometimes I feel..." Another pause, several short beaths. "I feel too much."

**The Deep, Silent Night**

Lancelot was awake long before he opened his eyes. He could feel the heat of Tristan's bare-chested body pressed up against his own. Tristan's hair, wild and tangled as it was, tickled his neck as he lay still with his head nestled against Tristan's shoulder.

It was the silent hour just before dawn. This day's silence was broken only by the sound of Lancelot's own ragged breathing. Tristan made no such noise, although his right hand was curled around the older man's wrist so that the heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingers. The pulse spoke of life; it was a rhythm of promises- of stories that could be.

Lancelot's other hand rested on the taut skin of Tristan's torso. Slowly, he traced feather light circles across the lean muscle and ran the tips of his fingers through the course hair.

"Do you realise that tickles?" Tristan sounded faintly amused.

A rosy blush spreads across Lancelot's cheeks. Thank goodness it was dark. "I didn't know you were awake," Lancelot stammered.

"I don't sleep," Tristan said. His right arm, already wrapped around and beneath Lancelot, tightened its grip. Obediently, Lancelot allowed himself to be rolled onto his side. The change of position caused a sharp stab of pain and he clenched his teeth together. The pain subsided quickly- so quickly that Lancelot suspected he'd only imagined it.

On opening his eyes, he was surprised to see that the embers of the fire across the room illuminated Tristan's outline. His eyes shone in the faint light, even as the rest his face was shadowed. Transfixes, mesmerized, unable to help himself, Lancelot leaned forward. He stopped with his lips a mere fraction from Tristan's. He didn't dare take it any further.

"Don't fear me," Tristan said.

Lancelot gently touched his lips to Tristan's.

The kiss was short. Lancelot sighed and rolled onto his back. He was separated from Tristan by a finger's breadth and yet he could feel the heat that radiated from the other man.

"What will you do now?" Lancelot asked; he knew that Tristan came from a closely-knit tribe- the tattoos on his face were more that evidence to that.

"I might go to Sarmatia," said Tristan noncommittally. "I might travel. I have a fancy to see the lands of the far, far east. The spice lands."

For a moment Lancelot settled into his own thoughts. "The papers are worthless," he murmured.

"Sorry?"

"The papers giving us free passage. I always imagined that they would be like freedom on a piece of paper and yet now, now I have one, I don't know what to do. There's too much choice… I fear I will spend the rest of my life trying to find my way home."

Tristan sounded thoughtful. "Are you saying that serving Rome was freedom in its own way."

"No. I'm saying that we've never had freedom. We haven't, have we?" Lancelot demanded.

"You should ask Arthur. He's the one with the gilded tongue." Tristan sounded bitter in a way he never had before.

"I'm asking you," said Lancelot, suddenly petulant and angry too.

Tristan leaned forward and tried to kiss him again. His lips caught on Lancelot's jaw. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "We've had freedom: the freedom to die."

"But what about the freedom to live?"

"I think we have it now."

Lancelot moved closer to Tristan. "Oddly enough, I used to think you wanted to die." His voice took on a whimsical tone. "That soldiering was just the means to the end."

Tristan swallowed. His palms were sweating for the first time in his life. "I want you to come away with me," he said.

* * *

Later, as the black night sky became a dull grey, a thousand Saxon campfires were extinguished. Tents disappeared and the heavy baggage carts were left behind. 

The Saxon army marched south.

Above their destination, Hadrian's Wall, a winged shadow soared through the morning sky. It cried shrilly, screaming for its master.

The hawk without a name had all but been abandoned.

_**Tbc…**_


	12. The Coincidence Of Memory

I love all these kind reviewers: perberaidien, L J Groundwater, Camreyn, Gypsy Luv, hornofgondor2, Hugo's Bitch, skinnyrita, LadyMacbeth, varda101 and catspaw. Thank you for reminding me to update! 

Disclaimer: movie quotations taken from the Fallen Knights Fansite script.

**Chapter Twelve**

There are events in every man's life that – when looked back upon – form memories so bright, so clear, that they scarcely differ from the events themselves.

To step inside Arthur's head would be like stepping into the wild torrent of a fast-flowing river; it would be like drowning in guilt and self-reproach, sorrow and worry, piety and love.

But there were also memories in Arthur's mind: memories that shone like burnished gold…

* * *

"There comes a time in every man's life when he must take command." Pelagius gave Arthur a benevolent smile. "One day it will be your time, Arthur." 

Arthur, a gangling boy of twelve, gazed up at his mentor with solemn eyes and a grave expression. "Will I be ready?" he asked.

"No one is every truly ready, child. You can only do your best."

"What if my best isn't good enough?" Arthur'syoung face was creased into a deep frown.

"To do your best is all anyone can ever ask of you, Arthur. Never forget that and never let anyone make you feel unworthy."

Arthur nodded. He didn't tell Pelagius that he was scared and yet his fear must have shown in his face because Pelagius placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The time for command is still a good few years away, my lad."

* * *

…**The Passage Of Five Years… **

Arthur surveyed his conscripts. For the most part, they were a sorry group: beaten and broken with dull listless faces. As he marched up and down the lines, asking each new recruit his name, he found that most answered him in weary monotones. There were two, though, who still gave him defiant looks: two whom the Roman brutality had not yet defeated.

The first was one of the oldest. Even in line, he had managed to stand slightly apart from the rest and his hands were bound tightly behind his back. He was tall and thin to the point of emaciation, with hollow cheeks and the bones of his collar jutting out from where his ragged tunic had ripped near the top. There were tribal tattoos marking his skin just below cold black eyes that both glittered with hatred and seemed to mock whosoever they looked upon.

"What is your name?" Arthur demanded.

"You can call me Tristan." Every word spoke of insolence.

"Why are your hands bound?"

"Because I tried to escape." Tristan turned around suddenly, so Arthur could see the streaks of red that stained the back of his tunic. Facing Arthur once again, he gave a hollow mirthless smile. "Given the chance, I will kill Romans. You are no exception."

Arthur swallowed. "I don't believe loyalty can be taken," he said. "It has to be earned."

For a moment, Tristan's hard eyes softened. "Then earn it." He watched as Arthur made his way swiftly down the line before stopping at a dark-haired boy of scarcely fifteen years.

"I am Artorius Castus, the Commander of the-"

"I know who you are," the boy interrupted. His face was covered in bruises and one eye was swollen half shut. "Your reputation precedes you…"

Arthur gave a stiff bow.

"…They say you are the son of a cowardly Roman bastard and a poxed British whore."

Arthur looked down at the ground. He had heard the words too many times before and yet, somehow, they still bit at his soul. He swallowed and forced himself to meet the boy's eyes. "Your name?" he asked.

"Lancelot." The boy's jaw was set firmly and his eyes gleamed with defiance- with liquid fire. He wanted Arthur to be angry; he wanted to see Arthur's weakness. He wanted to be beaten.

Arthur managed a smile. "Lancelot, I would be honoured if you would be seated to my right at dinner."

The place of honour.

Arthur turned awayand Lancelot's eyes widened in shock.

* * *

Two hours later, Arthur was sitting at the Round Table with a distinguished Centurionat his left and the young Sarmatian, Lancelot, to his right. 

Silence reigned.

Arthur surreptitiously watched as Lancelot pulled at the hem of his tunic in a vain attempt to rid it of creases. He looked nervous.

Arthur's eyes scanned round the room and rested on each conscript for a few brief seconds before moving on. The blonde-haired boy, Gawain, was drumming his fingers on the table in a senseless rhythm. Next to him, Bors stared at an ornate silver goblet as if he expected it to sprout wings and fly away. Two places down from him, a tiny dark-haired child – Arthur thought his name was Galahad – bit down hard on his trembling lower lip. The boy's eyes shone with suppressed tears.

Only Tristan remained aloof from it all. He gazed disdainfully back at Arthur and once more flashed his mirthless smile.

_I kill Romans, _he mouthed.

Arthur saw this and never said a word. He hated how Rome treated these men – these boys – with all the compassion of his heart.

And he had sworn to earn their loyalty.

Arthur stood up. "Knights of the Round Table, Sarmatian warriors, I welcome you to Hadrian's Wall." His words were greeted with empty looks and a silence that was too loud.

Arthur sat down again as servants brought the food in. He turned to Lancelot. "Do you like chicken?" he asked, offering Lancelot a fat honey-glazed chicken to carve.

Lancelot hesitated for a moment, as if torn between defiance and hunger. "I like chicken," he eventually decided. "Though I don't know about_ Roman _chicken..."

* * *

…**Six Weeks Are Gone In The Blink Of An Eye…**

Arthur lay stomach down on his bed, propped up on his elbows so he could read a letter from Pelagius extolling the virtues of brotherhood and liberty.

There was a knock on the door. It was a reluctant knock; the sort of knock that sounds as if it longs to be ignored.

"Come in!" called Arthur. He sat up and perched on the edge of his bed.

One of his younger knights, Lancelot, entered. He looked awkward as he stood before Arthur with his eyes cast to the ground.

"Well?" Arthur asked.

"I owe you an apology."

Arthur forced his face into a stern expression and waited until Lancelot had plucked up the courage to meet his eyes. "You owe me nothing."

Lancelot spoke fiercely. "No, sir! I will speak!" He took a deep shaky breath. "When you first introduced yourself, all those weeks ago, I said things that I shouldn't have said and if I'd only known what you were going to be like-"

"Shut up," Arthur said, a little harshly. "The past is best forgotten, don't you think?"

"I called you the son of a Roman bastard and, ummm-" Lancelot paused. "I should never have presumed-"

Suddenly, Arthur's eyes sparkled. "If I wanted an arse-licker I would have hired one," he said.

Lancelot allowed himself a small – slightly impudent – smile. "And what _do_ you want, sir?" he asked.

"A soldier…"Arthur's smile turned shy. He had been so lonely. "And a friend…"

Lancelot – still a stupid feisty boy on the edge of manhood – grinned and grasped Arthur's hand, pulling him into a back-slapping bear hug.

It was a little awkward and Lancelot quickly darted through the door, blushing profusely.

And Arthur stared after him.

* * *

**…A Year Disappeared Like A Dream…**

Arthur found Lancelot in the practice arena. It was early May and Lancelot was sweating in the gentle heat as he sparred with an imaginary enemy.

"Lancelot!" Arthur called.

His friend set down his sword and beamed at him. "What brings you here, Captain? Will you spar with me?"

"I will not," said Arthur. "It's too hot by far."

"Then what can I do for you?" Lancelot brushed the sweat from his eyes and Arthur felt a sudden pang as he realised in an instant that somehow over the course of the past year the fiesty youth had turned into a grown man.

"I've brought you something. Twin swords," Arthur said, carefully unwrapping his burden. Inside two swords gleamed like shards of sunlight.

"They're beautiful." Lancelot's voice was reverent; his eyes were mesmerized. "Are they mine?"

"They're yours."

An expression of doubt crossed Lancelot's face. "Do you think-" he began. "Nothing." His pride cut him off.

"Of course its impossible to wield two swords at once." Arthur tried to sound casual. "Im-poss-i-ble," he emphasised every syllable.

"Nothing's impossible," said Lancelot angrily "I can wield them."

Arthur grinned. "Never!" he exclaimed, trying to sound incredulous.

"I will wield them and not only that- I shall fight you!"

"Fight me?"

"And beat you!"

"Beat me?"

"I shall."

And that was that. Lancelot stormed off to attempt the impossible before he could see Arthur's indulgent smile.

* * *

It took nearly two months. 

Arthur watched Lancelot twirl round, with his swords cutting through the air like twin demons. He waited for Lancelot to finish his dance – for a dance was what it was – and then cleared his throat. "Lancelot?"

"My Lord?"

"I will fight you now, if that is still your wish."

Lancelot didn't answer immediately and a few long seconds passed before he gave a terse nod. He looked troubled.

It began slowly. Lancelot stabbed, Arthur parried. Lancelot swept his left sword backwards in a graceful arc and Arthur dodged it, then chased Lancelot backwards with a series of short cuts that Lancelot barely parried. Arthur lunged and missed as Lancelot side stepped and then–

Lancelotdropped bothhis swords to the ground.

Arthur let Excalibur fall and rushed forwards. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

He found a knife pressed sharply against his throat.

"Damn you," he growled softly.

"I am damned." Lancelot grinned and moved the knife. He turned serious in an instant. "I wish that hadn't happened," he said. "I will spar with you, Arthur, but I will never again fight you."

"Why?"

"Because it's my job to watch your back."

* * *

**…Years Gone With The Wind…**

There are many ways in which time can be measured: in hours, or days, in the waxing and waning of the moon, in the number of smiles exchanged or the number of enemies killed. For Arthur, time was measured in the number of comrades lost; in the number of fallen knights.

Every battle became a statistic on the scale of heartbreak. Every battle, Arthur gave half his thought to the enemy and half to his friends. Were they okay? Had any fallen? Was anyone wounded?

And Arthur lived in dread of an event that never seemed to happen. Every time Lancelot fell his heartbeat faltered and yet Lancelot always seemed to get up again. It was just a stumble, or a scratch (which became a euphemism for a gaping wound).

Every time Lancelot rose from the ground, panting and bleeding but not broken, Arthur became more and more convinced of his friend's mortality: the more wounds he survived, the more likely the next was to kill him.

* * *

And yet it never happened.

* * *

…**Fifteen Years Of Blood To Stain The Land Red…**

At the forefront of Arthur's mind was a vivid memory from scarcely a week ago.

He had been praying aloud and Lancelot had found him. Arthur had tried to justify their last mission. Lancelot had been adamantly against it.

"I don't give a damn about Romans, Britain, or this island," he had shouted. "If you desire to spend eternity in this place, Arthur, then so be it. But suicide cannot be chosen for another!"

"And yet you choose death for this family?"

"No, I choose life! And freedom!" Lancelot slammed his hand down onto a beam. "For myself and the men!" He sighed and his eyes burned as brightly and as angrily as the day on which he had first met Arthur.

Nevertheless, Lancelot sat down as his burning angerturned to despair. Arthur ached to see it.

Lancelot would followhim to the gates of Hell.

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat?"Arthur demanded. "Outnumbered, outflanked, but still we triumph?" His voice was calm and soothing. "With you at my side, we can do so again. Lancelot, we are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?"

Lancelot shook his head. "Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist. Never. There will always be a battlefield."

And Arthur has known what was going to be said next.

**Death**. The word overshadowed them all.

"I will die in battle," Lancelot said. "Of that I'm certain. Now hopefully, a battle of my choosing." He paused. "But, if it be this one, grant me a favour: don't bury me in our sad little cemetery.

Arthur stared at his closest friend.

"Burn me! Burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong east wind."

Arthur wished he had embraced Lancelot; he wished he had wrapped his arms around the younger knight and not let go. He wished he had reassured or even cried.

He wished he hadn't stared at Lancelot with blank eyes.

But memory is memory.

For better or worse, it cannot be changed.

_**Tbc…  
**_


	13. A Bloody Ridiculous Thing To Say

Thanks to Allegra, Hugo's Dungeon Bitch Spank Whore, evilminx, perberaidien, Keelin, skinnyrita, Camreyn, hornofgondor2, Egyptian-Tamer, catspaw, whatevergirl and A. Please keep reviewing! 

Please note: Arthur knows of the nature of the relationship between Lancelot and Tristan. If you remember, he witnessed one of their 'moments' in Chapter Nine.

**Chapter Thirteen**

The still, silent, grey moments before sunrise are a dangerous time for conversations…

"_We've never had freedom. We haven't have we?" Lancelot demanded._

"_You should ask Arthur. He's the one with the gilded tongue." Tristan sounded bitter in a way he never had before._

"_I'm asking you," said Lancelot, suddenly petulant and angry too.  
_

_Tristan leaned forward and tried to kiss him. His lips caught on Lancelot's jaw. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "We've had freedom: the freedom to die." _

"But what about the freedom to live?"

"I think we have it now."

_Lancelot moved closer to Tristan. "Oddly enough, I used to think you wanted to die." His voice took on a whimsical tone. "That soldiering was just the means to the end."_

Barely two hours had passed since Tristan had said the fateful words:

_"Come away with me."

* * *

_

Lancelot's bed felt suddenly cold.

Lancelot shivered and groped for the rough blanket. "Tristan… Bastard… Blanket thief…" he muttered. His hands, however, soon grasped the blanket but they failed to settle on the warm body that should have been beneath it. "Are you there, Tristan? Tristan?" Lancelot tried not to panic as his heart began to beat faster and faster."Tristan!" he cried.

Tristan didn't answer.

Lancelot's hands searched Tristan out for a minute more and yet he knew what had happened.

Tristan had gone.

* * *

Life is by nature sad. 

In the cold light of the dawn, Tristan left the fortress. He cantered his horse swiftly across the land to the South of the Wall, heading for the nearest patch of woodland. Dismounting, he whistled up into the air and was greeted by a harsh shriek. A moment later his hawk plummeted from the sky and settled on his arm. Its orange eyes looked at him reprovingly, almost accusingly._ You abandoned me, _it seemed to say.

"I'm sorry," Tristan said. "But if you only knew what had happened…"

'**If**' was Tristan's least favourite word. It spoke of what might have been; what should have been if only the world was a perfect place.

For Tristan, the perfect place would be a place without people; a place without that stupid humiliating emotion known as 'love'.

Tristan sank down to the ground. It was soft from the recent rains and the grass was wet with dew. The water soaked through the knees of his breeches and yet he paid it little heed. He stroked a loving finger across the hawk's back and fought with a strange urge to pray. It was ridiculous: he had no god, save possibly Mother Nature.

Against his will, he found himself remembering the conversation with Lancelot in the dreamy hours before the sun had risen.

_"Come away with me."_

What a crazy, idiotic, bloody ridiculous thing to say.

With a quick fluid movement, Tristan cast off his hawk. He leant forward until his head touched the damp earth and gave a quiet moan of pain. His hawk landed a few feet away and watched him warily.

Tristan didn't expect it. Suddenly he was crying for the first time in fifteen years.

_"Come away with me."_

_Tristan's words had seemed to echo in the silence that followed: almost as if they were magnified by the near-darkness. _

"_Where would we go?" Lancelot had asked, as if that was actually important._

"_It doesn't matter where," Tristan had said. "Wherever you want…"_

_Lancelot, who had been snuggled close with an arm resting across Tristan's belly, moved away. Tristan could feel the heat radiating from him and yet he longed for the actual contact of that hot flesh. "Just you and me?" Lancelot had asked._

"_Yes." _

_Lancelot had given a whimsical sigh. "I'm sorry," he had whispered. "I just can't." _

Just can't.

Tristan knew, somewhere deep down, that Lancelot loved Arthur- probably had done for the last fifteen years.

Just can't.

Tristan swiped at his tears with his hands. Crying wouldn't achieve anything. He needed to make a plan; needed to work out what to do next.

Just can't.

His hawk hopped towards him. It hesitated a moment, and then gave his wrist a sharp nip.

"Ow!" Tristan glared at the bird. "What was that for?"

The hawk hopped up and down, once, twice, three times.

"You're tired of me, are you? Well you can go." Tristan shooed it away."I'm nobody's burden!"

The hawk flew up into the air with several violent flaps of its wings. It disappeared into the tree canopy with a final piercing shriek.

Tristan stared after it, feeling very alone all of a sudden."I didn't mean-" he began.

Oh God.

He fell silent immediately. His entire body tensed and his hand settled on the hilt of his sword.

But it was too late.

There were blue figures all around him, swarming through the trees, their arrows pointing at him, their bared teeth far too white in their blue faces.

Woads.

One of them stepped forward. She was a very slender young woman, wearing a green cloak over the leather battle armour of her kind. Her long black-brown hair was scraped back into a knot behind her head. Her hazel eyes were bright.

"Hello, Tristan," she said.

Tristan gave her a nod. "Hello, Guinevere," he replied.

* * *

Arthur climbed out of bed and groaned at the blast of cold air. He quickly abandoned the breeches he was wearing and groped around for a pair of thicker ones and a padded tunic. Shivering, he spared a brief thought for Lancelot whose recent wounds must be aching terribly in the bitter cold. His concern, however, was short lived; all too quickly replaced with a stab of jealousy as he thought of Lancelot with Tristan... 

Kissing Tristan, in bed with Tristan…

God, it hurt.

_You're only jealous… _whispered a persistent voice in Arthur's head. _You wish it were you, don't you?_

"Yes," Arthur answered aloud.

"Yes what?" Lancelot asked. Arthur hadn't heard the door open and yet there was Lancelot, standing before him, larger than life and with his eyes boring into Arthur's soul.

Arthur shook his head. "Oh, nothing." He finally managed to find his pair of thickest breeches and he pulled them on, relieved to be no longer naked beneath Lancelot's gaze. "Can I help you?" Arthur asked him.

Lancelot shrugged. He looked a little lost."He's gone," he said.

"Who?"

"Tristan."

"Ahhhh. That doesn't really surprise me." Arthur took a hesitant step towards his friend. "There's to be no secrets from now on," he said. "I knew Tristan was leaving. He told me so a couple of days ago; he wants to keep fighting." Arthur paused. "I think he lives off war."

Lancelot shook his head. He wasn't crying yet: his eyes were cold and hard. "That's not true. It can't be." He looked intently at Arthur. "He asked me to come away with him."

"And what did you say?" Arthur tried to sound nonchalant.

"I said… I said that I 'just can't'."

"Why?"

"I didn't love him- I couldn't let him think so."

"I'm sorry," said Arthur. "For you and for Tris-"

His words were cut off and the breath knocked from him as Lancelot darted across the room and threw his arms round Arthur's neck. Arthur pulled him closer and let Lancelot bury his face in his neck and sob.

Lancelot whispered in Arthur's ear. His hot breath tickled."Your God would have me burn in Hell for what I've done."

"No," Arthur said. He squeezed Lancelot even tighter and Lancelot squeezed back. They were holding each other so tightly now that they were leaving bruises; they clung to one another like dying men to driftwood. Lancelot's tears were warm on Arthur's bare shoulder.

Suddenly, moved by the trembling of the other man, Arthur said the one thing he had never thought to hear himself say. "If that is your fate then I can only hope to share it with you. May I too burn in Hell!"

After all, he had Lancelot in his arms- wasn't this everything he'd ever wanted?

How could Heaven compare to this?

* * *

Tristan slowly rose from the ground. He drew himself to his full height until he stood a head taller than Guinevere. 

"How may I help you, my lady?"

"These are dangerous times to be caught unawares." She smiled at him; the same smile that might have dazzled Arthur before he remembered he was in love with another; had always been, in fact.

Tristan gave her an intense look. The tears had vanished from his eyes, leaving them black as night and yet slightly red-rimmed. "The Saxons are both our enemies," he said carefully. Calculatingly.

"Indeed," Guinevere said. She grinned suddenly. "And that's why I need your help…"

**Tbc…**


	14. With His Smile Like Sunshine

Thank you perberaidien, Camreyn, hornofgondor2, Drakcir, Gypsy Luv, catspaw, Corina, Afmin, KnightGuardian (more than one thank you, I think!), Demus, Alexa, Ivory Novelist and RiseAgainPhoenix. I took my time, guys (this is the understatement of the century!) and I'm sorry!

Warning: Mild disturbing content.

**Chapter Fourteen**

Jols stood on the battlements and gazed out across the frozen landscape. After a while, Edolie - the girl Galahad had rescued -joined him. Jols pretended not to notice as she began to shiver.

"You're Arthur's squire," she said, wrapping her frozen arms tighter round herself.

"I am."

"Do you think he'll ever give the order to leave?" she asked.

Jols shrugged. "I don't pretend to know what he's thinking… He's a great man, Arthur." He paused, swallowed. "He won't leave without Lancelot, I know that for sure."

Edolie felt a weight settle inside her stomach. Lancelot had been raped; he was broken and defeated. Would he be well enough to flee the fortress before the Saxons arrived? How long did they have, anyway?

By her side, Jols stirred. "D'you see that?" he asked, pointing to the crest of the nearest hill. "Do you think-"

"Men," Edolie said. "Are they-"

"Saxons."

* * *

Lancelot carefully extricated himself from Arthur's arms. "We should probably talk," he said. Then, "You might want to sit down." 

"It's okay," Arthur said. "I know what happened to you." He gently guided Lancelot towards the bed, where they could sit, side by side. Brothers in arms.

Arthur rested his hand on Lancelot's shoulder and pretended not to notice how his friend trembled at the touch. "I know what happened with Tristan and I also know about the, the, um, rape and-"

"How do you know about that?" Lancelot interrupted.

"The others told me."

Lancelot swallowed. "The others?"

"Gawain and Galahad and-"

"Please don't say Bors." Lancelot looked at Arthur imploringly, anxiously. "He wouldn't understand."

"He does understand. They all understand," Arthur said. His voice was soft as snow. "They all figured out the one thing I should have known. And by God, Lancelot, I'll never forgive myself for not realising. **Never**. I can only say that I'm sorry and-"

"What have you got to be sorry about? Really, Arthur!" Lancelot protested. "It's hardly your fault I was raped!"

"Isn't it!" Arthur jumped to his feet, and gave a long weary sigh before he started shouting. "Christ! Of course I'm to blame! A commander is always to blame!" Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "I should have prevented it. I should…" He looked down at the ground for a moment. "I should never have left you that night," he said. "And I shouldn't have wasted precious time talking to you about Guinevere when I could have been talking about other things. Other people. The things that matter, don't you see?"

Lancelot shrugged his shoulders.

"And the thing is, Lancelot, I know you were pretending to be me. Why else would the Saxons take _you_?" Arthur asked, sinking back to the bed. "You were trying to save me: the ultimate sacrifice, your life for mine." He paused for a moment and gave a hopeless shake of his head. "You should never have felt obligated to protect me-"

"Please I-"

"No, Lancelot. Let me speak." Arthur took a deep breath. "If you thought it was your duty to protect me or to die for me then that's ridiculous because-"

"I did it because I loved you!" Lancelot cried. "I couldn't let you die!"

Arthur looked at him for a moment- a long, achingly slow moment. And then, meeting Lancelot's eyes, he cupped his friend's face between the palms of his hands. He trembled slightly and yet Lancelot actually appeared calm, merely blinking a couple of times as if surprised and then closing his eyes as he softly exhaled. His breath brushed across Arthur's face.

"I'd rather die a thousand deaths than lose you," Arthur murmured, his voice hoarse.

He might also have said '_I love you _' – certainly the words hovered on the edge of his tongue- yet he was interrupted.

"My Lord Arthur!" cried Jols, running into the room and stumbling on the uneven stone floor. "My Lord, the Saxons!"

"The Saxons?"

"Aye, sir! The scouts have appeared on the crest of North Hill!"

Arthur frowned. "The scouts? Only the scouts? But then surely the rest of the army is not far behind..." He glanced at Lancelot and took a deep breath, suddenly afraid. "You would not come away with Tristan," he said. "But - perhaps -you might come away with me?"

"Not to Rome," Lancelot said, sadly, in the voice of someone who knows their dreams are about to be shattered.

"Not Rome then…We can go to Sarmatia. You can show me where you grew up and-" Arthur gave a wild grin. "-Everything!"

"Arthur that's- I'd love-" Lancelot took Arthur's hand and held it for a few seconds. "I'd like nothing more," he said truthfully.

And with those words, Arthur turned back to Jols and, still grinning, he said "Make ready to leave the fort!"

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

The knight writhed on the floor, twitching in mortal agony and all the while the dragon advanced, slowly and surely, with its teeth bared into a snarl. 

The knight's fingers scrabbled around on the stone floor in a desperate search for his sword. Time and time again he fingers closed on air until - at last - they closed around the hilt of his sword.

Bors watched the games of his two favourite children with an indulgent smile.

"You cannot kill me," said the younger of the two boys.

"I am not afraid!" cried the other. In a sudden movement he raised the stick he clutched in his hand and pressed it against his younger brother's throat. "Die, dragon!"

Galahad entered the room quietly, his boots scarcely making a sound as he moved up behind Bors. He cleared his throat and scarcely glanced at the children. "Have you seen Edolie?" he asked.

Bors turned. "What? That blonde girl you found?"

"Yes, have you seen her?" A note of worry had crept into Galahad's voice.

"Nah." Bors gave a emphatic shake of his big head. "Not seen her since early this morning, mate."

* * *

The Saxons made camp with quick ruthless efficiency. 

Cynric sat apart from the men, chewing thoughtfully on some dried meat. He gazed up at the fortress and wondered if Arthur was in there and if so how could he be killed?

A sudden commotion drew Cynric's attention away from the fort. His lieutenant, Aglaeca, was dragging apetite blonde girl towards him.

"Who's the girl?" Cynric growled.

"Some wench that approached the scouts. Came running towards them, she did, pleading mercy because there are only six soldiers left in the fort and she don't seem to think they'll ever leave." Aglaeca leered. "I thought you might want to _question_ her…"

He forced Edolie onto her knees before Cynric. She crouched in the frozen dirt, shivering with something other than cold. Bent forward, she pulled her thin cloak so tight about her that the knobs of her spine showed beneath the fabric.

"Well?" Cynric demanded. His gaze could burn through metal or freeze blood. It was too strong, too hard, far too angry. "He's there is he?"

"Aye," said Edolie. "Arthur's there and Lancelot."

At Cynric's temple, a nerve twitched. _Lancelot. _Now that was a name to remember. "I don't believe you," Cynric said.

Edolie whimpered, actually whimpered. Her teeth bit down onto her lower lip, which was white with pressure and then red with a droplet of blood. "Please, my Lord, I wouldn't lie… I couldn't… I respect you and…"

"Silence." Cynric had bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. The nerve twitched on. "No need to fear, love," he said. "We're real nice men round here." Aglaeca started laughing. A crowd had gathered.

"Hold out your hand, my love, and I'll kiss it."

Edolie obeyed, extending a small hand that trembled. Cynric took it in his own hand and - true to his word - he kissed it. A ring of saliva glistened on the back.

"See? I'm not such a monster, am I?"

"No, my Lord," Edolie whispered. She stopped whimpering andfelt a blissful second of relief before she realised that Cynric hadn't yet relinquished her hand. "My Lord?" She tried to pull her hand back and the crowd of men watched as she struggled.

"Should I let her go?" Cynric asked.

The crowd cheered, wanting blood, scenting it like hounds on a deer trail.

Cynric looked down at the frightened girl. "I despise your beauty," he hissed as he clamped his hand around hers until he heard the snapping of bones, one after the other.

Edolie gasped and snatched her hand back to stare wide-eyed at the crooked, broken fingers.

"Have her, lads!" Cynric barked. "She's yours!"

Edolie shrieked.

* * *

Arthur was like a man possessed. Lancelot trailed after him, struggling to keep up as Arthur sped along corridors, with his heavy-shod boots thumping against stone. 

"Arthur! Arthur, I understand the need for haste and everything but-" Lancelot trailed off mid-sentence as he realised Arthur wasn't paying him the slightest bit of attention. "Bloody Roman," Lancelot panted. He abandoned his pursuit and bent over double, fighting to gain his breath and to ignore the throbbing in his ribs.

He heard heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

"Lancey!" Bors was upon him in a second. "How are you, mate?"

Lancelot straightened up and gingerly brushed a hand across his ribs. "Bit sore," he said noncommittally.

_Bors knows what happened to me_, he suddenly realised. He stood stock-still, frozen in Bors' presence.

Awkwardness in a person.

"Aye. Well-" Bors' words were cut off by the sharp blaring sound of a trumpet. The traditional call to arms. "Surely not-"

_War._

_Battle._

_Retreat?_

"We're abandoning the fortress," Lancelot explained.

An unmistakeable look of panic flashed across Bors' face.

"What's wrong?" asked Lancelot, concerned.

"Well, it's just… I haven't yet finished the wine! Or the ale, for that matter! Can't leave it for the Saxons… They don't appreciate…" Bors trailed off as Lancelot began to walk away from him. "Hey! Hey! Lancey!"

Lancelot turned. "There are worse things that can happen at the hands of the Saxons," he said, with a slight frown.

"I know." Bors gave a tragic, theatrical sigh. "But all that ale…"

* * *

It took one hour to clear the fortress. There were only the five knights and Jols and Vanora and the bastards: the latter were all crammed into a wagon. 

A worried expression was fixed to Galahad's face. Edolie had not appeared. "Where do you think she is?" Galahad asked Gawain.

"Don't be worrying about her, mate. She'll have run off after that stable hand- the one that left a couple of days back…" Gawain chuckled. "He was better looking than you." Leaning out of his saddle, Gawain reached to clasp his friend's shoulder. "Less pretty, more manly…" he explained.

"Bastard," Galahad growled. He didn't mean it, though. Sometimes there is nothing so comforting as a friend's teasing.

Arthur cleared his throat. Silence decended."This is it, Knights of the Round Table!" His horse pranced beneath him, tail trailing behind like a pennant. "It's time to go."

Bors shook his head, clearly shocked that they were actually leaving. "Well bugger me!" he exclaimed.

Lancelot smiled suddenly, bright like sunshine and gleaming copper. "Thanks for the offer but, well, I'd rather not…"

The knights stared at one another and then back at Lancelot, who was barely suppressing laughter at his own joke. Still, it was Bors who succumbed first and soon all of the knights were laughing.

"It's good to have you back, mate!"

"Yeah, I almost missed the old Lancelot. _Almost_!"

Lancelot smiled at his fellow knights. They all looked happy and Arthur the happiest of all. Half crying, half laughing through his tears, the Commander smiled back at Lancelot.

They rode out of the fortress, cantering across the fields to the South of the Wall, scouting ahead of the wagon.

And then there was Tristan, swimming before Lancelot's eyes like a vision. _Gods_, Lancelot thought, _am I crying as well_?

"Tristan!" Arthur called out, surprise evident in his tone. "I thought you had gone!"

"I wish to speak with you, Arthur," Tristan said. He bowed. "My Lord, I have come to ask for your help."

And then Tristan's eyes fixed on Lancelot. "And I would speak with you as well," he said; his voice was deep and yet not quite steady.

"Tristan, I never meant-" Lancelot's own voice trailed into nothingness. What could he say with the eyes of the knights and Jols and Vanora all fixed on him?

And Arthur's gaze as well, soft and worried, with a look that was etched onto his soul.

_I might have loved you, Tristan. _

_If not for Arthur…_

**_Tbc…_**


	15. If I Die Tomorrow

Thank you L J Groundwater, Drakcir, Corina, hornofgondor2, scandalous-sugababes, KnightGuardian, Camreyn, Ivory Novelist, RiseAgainPhoenix, perberaidien, MsyticNight, Gypsy Luv, Syn, DarkHiei 11, forgotten-magick and WanderingWonder. Sorry for taking so long.

**Chapter Fifteen**

"_You hate the Saxons?"  
_

"_I do," Tristan said, thinking of Lancelot. _

_Guinevere smiled. "To beat the Saxons we need Arthur."_

"_Arthur will not fight," Tristan said. "He's tired of bloodshed... Unless-"_

"_Unless Lancelot fights," Guinevere suggested. "They are _very_ close, Lancelot and Arthur, aren't they? Like brothers, you might say."_

"_Or like lovers." Tristan gave Guinevere a tight smile. "Lancelot will fight against the Saxons. He craves revenge."_

_Guinevere didn't ask what for. Perhaps she already knew. Who could know what spies these people might have?_

**A Day For Enemies**

Tristan ran ahead of them, swiftly and softly, his feet scarcely touching the ground.

Arthur might have hesitated as Tristan led them towards a patch of dense woodland, perhaps two miles to the south-east of the fortress. In the bright wintry daylight the looming trees looked dark and somehow sinister. So yes, Arthur would have hesitated, had Lancelot not followed Tristan unquestioningly.

That was the thing about Lancelot: if you had his loyalty, you would never lose it. They had only been in Britain for three winters when Lancelot had boldly declared to Arthur that – if needs must – he would follow his Commander anywhere, even to the innermost circle of hell. Wherever that might be.

And so the Knights followed Tristan into the trees.

"Tristan!" Arthur spurred his horse into a canter until he drew level with the scout. "Where are you taking us, Tristan?"

Tristan slowed down to a walk, forcing Arthur to pull his horse us sharply. "This is the Woad camp," Tristan said. He smiled – albeit a little sadly – up at his Commander.

Arthur stared down at the scout, horrified. Achingly slowly, he dismounted and led his horse forwards. His hand settled on the hilt of his sword, even as figures emerged from the trees; they were men and women, all lithe bodies and leather armour, and skin painted blue to blend with the shadows.

Arthur's voice was barely a whisper as he stepped closer to Tristan. "You've taken us to the Woad camp. Why?"

Tristan didn't answer. Nor did he flinch as Bors brought his horse up behind him and forced an arm round his neck. "What the bleeding hell do you think you're playing at!" Bors tightened his grip on Tristan.

Several voices spoke at once; all said the same thing: "Let him go!" Arthur's voice was commanding; Lancelot's a little fearful; Guinevere, as she too emerged from the trees, sounded deadly.

Arthur stared at the young woman, his almost-lover. "Why have we been brought here?" he asked. The frown creasing his face made him look older than his years.

"Merlin wishes to speak with you."

"But is it only words he asks for?"

"Yes."

Arthur bowed. "Then I cannot refuse."

And so it was that the Knights entered the camp of their former enemy: the Woads.

* * *

Side by side, the Knights stood before Merlin. Up close, the man's body was that of someone very _very_ old, though his eyes were still bright. He was sitting on the edge of a small clearing in the trees, surrounded by men and women, all fierce warriors by the look of them. 

Tristan was also there, sitting quietly beneath a tree, his eyes almost closed and his hands still by his sides. For a moment Lancelot was struck by the ineffability of Tristan- there was that something, that incomparable, inexpressible something. Only Tristan had it. A certain stillness, a certain nobility… Something in the flicker of his heavy-lidded eyes that said: "You may not trust yourself but you can trust me. Go on, have faith."

And so there was Tristan, motionless in the corner, bathed in shadow and mystery. A spectre.

Lancelot watched him and wondered. He'd always known he loved Arthur. Somewhere, deep down, that love had become a part of him: an extension of himself. But what he felt for Tristan was different. It wasn't love as such- more of a heat, a warmth, a need to be touched. Perhaps a little bit of desire too… Lancelot could almost imagine how - in a different world, a world without Arthur - it might have been. Yes, he could picture a scenario, a rainstorm perhaps? He might remove his clothing and there would be Tristan. It would be all too easy to press his hot body against Tristan's cool flesh.

Lancelot shook his head. He had to choose; it had to be this way. Arthur or Tristan. One or the other.

Merlin's voice broke into Lancelot's reverie. "Knights of the Round Table, my kin welcomes you," said the leader of the Woads.

Arthur, ever gracious, inclined his head.

"Long have you been our enemy: now we must unite if we wish to defeat the Saxons."

Perhaps Arthur had been expecting this;he did not look surprised. Lancelot gazed round at the faces of the others: Gawain looked oddly unmanned; Bors outraged; Galahad extremely angry. Tristan, however, didn't move a muscle or make a sound. He was like a statue.

Arthur spoke up. "My men have earned their freedom. They are leaving. _I _am leaving."

Merlin shook his head. "The Saxon King, Cerdic, is barbaric. The things he does… They do not bear thinking about." Merlin's eyes settled on Lancelot and it was almost as if he knew what had happened. _Almost_. "Will you let the invader triumph? Will you abandon the land that for the last fifteen years you have bled for and risked death for..?"

"I hate this land!" That was Galahad speaking, his eyes blazing with angry madness. "I have shed blood for it – too much blood. There shall be no more!"

Arthur reached across and settled a hand on the youngest knight's armour. "It's okay, Galahad… You shall not fight."

"Nor I," said Gawain. He gave Merlin a half-bow. "I have too much to live for."

Merlin nodded gravely. "And you?" he turned to Bors. "Will you help us?"

"I have a woman. I have children. I owe it to them to keep living."

Silence descended on the company. Across the faces of many of the Woads disappointment was written, possibly even despair. Merlin, however, remained undaunted. "What about you, Lancelot?" he asked, in his soft voice.

No, Lancelot would not fight again. Not in a million years. And so Lancelot opened his mouth, determined to refuse.

"Cynric will be there," Tristan said suddenly. His eyes sought out Lancelot's. "Cynric will be fighting. **Tomorrow**."

If Lancelot had only turned away, if he had only glanced at Arthur, then he might still have said 'no'. Instead he said: "I will fight."

His words seemed to echo through the clearing. Besides him, Lancelot could feel Arthur grow tense.

And then there was silence.

"Knights of the Round Table, whether you have agreed to fight with us or not, we ask you to accept our hospitality for the night."

Arthur nodded. He spared a swift glance for Lancelot, swallowed, then looked at the floor.

**A Night For Lovers**

Tristan wanted to speak with him. He wanted to speak with Tristan. So why was this so difficult?

It all boiled down to one thing. Arthur or Tristan. Tristan or Arthur.

And Lancelot had made his decision.

Walking through the Woad camphe could sense eyes burning into his back. Everywhere there was someone watching him.

"Do you know where Tristan is?" he asked one woman- she looked to be kin of Guinevere, a half-sister or possibly a cousin.

"The silent man, with the strange markings on his cheeks..?" The woman smiled, a little wistfully. "He is over there."

Tristan looked strangely insubstantial, silhouetted against the roaring fire. The slenderness of his frame was obvious as he sat hunched over hands that were extended, fingers stretched wide, towards the flames.

Lancelot cleared his throat. He felt as if he were intruding. "You asked to speak with me?"

Tristan didn't acknowledge him in any way. Lancelot sat next to the scout, awkward and rigid.

"What is it, Tristan?" Lancelot asked. He laid his hand on Tristan's shoulder.

Tristan flinched at the contact. "I'm a fool," he said. "I despise myself."

"Why?"

Tristan swept Lancelot's hand from his shoulder. He turned to look at the younger man; his facial expression was guarded. The dark eyes were hard and glistened in the glow from the fire like emeralds. "Nearly fifteen years of service passed without change and then, in the last week…" Tristan avoided Lancelot's gaze, instead looked fixedly over his left shoulder. "Ruin," he whispered, his lips barely moving as his mouth formed the word.

"Ruin?" Lancelot repeated. He didn't understand; after the rape he had felt that he understood Tristan- that somehow he had seen into the other man's soul and discovered that there is a capacity for love beneath even the coldest exterior. "You're not ruined; you're fine, you're alive. You've gained your freedom and if you'd only leave now then-"

"There never was freedom. I thought there was but-" Tristan stood up, abruptly. "Here I am standing before you in chains." He looked at Lancelot, finally, for a brief heavy second. "I hate you," he said softly. "I really do."

Lancelot stared after him as Tristan stepped away from the campfire and melted into the darkness like a creature of the underworld. _One minute he wants to spend the rest of his life with me and then he hates me… _Lancelot shivered. _And who can blame him…_

"Tristan!" Lancelot called. "Tristan, please! Tristan, I-"

"What?"

Lancelot jumped as Tristan materialised before him; his long hair was silver in the starlight. It shadowed his face.

"I never told you I was sorry," Lancelot said. "I never had the chance to tell you why I couldn't come away with you."

Tristan had a look in his eyes, then- an angry, wild look. Lancelot stepped backwards and told himself not to be afraid, even as his back collided with a tree. _This is Tristan… He would never harm you. _

Tristan stepped forward and reached out his arms so that they rested against the wood, one on either side of Lancelot. "You love Arthur," Tristan whispered. "I can see it written across your soul."

And he leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between them. He brushed his lips against Lancelot's cheek. And then he tilted Lancelot's head to the side, a little roughly perhaps, and kissed him. The younger knight, caught off his guard, gave a breathy moan and Tristan swallowed the sound, his tongue caressing Lancelot's lips, dancing in his mouth,

And then, abruptly, he broke away.

"Everything happens for a reason," Tristan said. "This is no exception." He turned to leave but Lancelot caught his arm and gripped it.

"Will you fight with me tomorrow?" Lancelot asked. "By my side?"

The look on Tristan's face spoke volumes. _Why ask a question to which you already know the answer, Lancelot?_

"Yes," Tristan said.

* * *

Lancelot watched as Guinevere left Arthur's tent. _Surely not… _He looked down at his shaking hands and wondered why Arthur had abandoned Guinevere in the first place. They made a lovely couple; they looked just like a couple should look. 

"Are you alright, Lancelot?" Guinevere called.

"Not too bad… You?"

"I will be better once the fighting begins!" She gave him a fierce smile. "Arthur awaits you inside."

"He awaits me?"

"He wishes to speak with you and…" Guinevere's smile turned into something more closely resembling a leer. "…Well, I'll leave it to you to find out." She nodded to him and then padded away towards Merlin's lair. She moved like Tristan- with as little sound as the beating of a moth's wings.

_He wishes to speak with me and... other things._ Could it be possible that Arthur felt the same as him? Did Arthur know how it felt to have half of your heart belong to another person?

Lancelot had to find out.

He stepped into Arthur's tent.

"Hello, Lancelot," Arthur was standing a few feet away, facing him, trying to smile.

"Arthur."

The walls of the tent were hung with soft green fabric. Lancelot surveyed them with a half-smile crossing his face. "This tent is the colour of your eyes," he said, blushing slightly.

"I said I could sleep under the stars but no one would listen. Guinevere kept telling me that I would want the privacy of a tent and-" Arthur blushed, suddenly and endearingly. "And she also said I was in love with you." He sounded a little upset.

Lancelot swallowed. "And are you? Are you in love with me?"

"I-" Arthur looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together, the knuckles white. "Please don't fight tomorrow," he said. "Please, I ask you… I couldn't bear it if you were to die. Not now."

Lancelot took a small step forward. "I love you, Arthur," he said, his voice a little rough. "I think I always have done."

"Then leave with me! We can go anywhere!..And if I've never told you how I feel before, you should know it's not for want of feelings! I _do _love you- More than I ever thought it possible to love another person. And I know that this is wrong – my religion tells me that – yet I can't deny the pull of my own heart. God, I love you!" Arthur shook his head. "Don't fight tomorrow."

"You can't persuade me, Arthur. My decision is made-"

"I beg you reconsider-"

"And," interrupted Lancelot, smiling, "if I am to die tomorrow then, by the gods, I want to live tonight."

Looking back, neither of them knew who moved first. One moment they were frozen to the spot and then Lancelot was moving towards Arthur, who had his arms outstretched and…

They met halfway.

**Tbc…**


	16. Tell Me Now

Thank you RiseAgainPhoenix, hornofgondor2, Mae, gryphon55, KnightGuardian, Demus, Drakcir, Camreyn, GaBo0, Emerald Amber, DarkHiei11, Ergonomicsky and forgotten-magick. I'm sorry for (once again) taking ages to update… But hey, look on the bright side: only two chapters left to go! 

Warning: a nice dose of wholesome (i.e. R-rated) Arthur/Lancelot slash;)

**Chapter Sixteen**

They clung to one another as dying men cling to life itself. And then they slid apart, both wide-eyed and breathless; both knowing what they craved and yet neither quite sure how to achieve it.

Arthur gave a little laugh. "It's the awkwardness," he said, still chuckling. "I've known you forever and yet-"

Lancelot swallowed. "Kiss me, please," he whispered.

And he didn't know how exactly, but there was definitely starlight seeping through the fabric walls of Arthur's tent. That is to say, Lancelot could see the silver gleam of the Heavens was reflected in Arthur's eyes as he leaned in closer.

"It seems," Arthur murmured, his breath mingling with Lancelot's, "that my entire life has only been lived in order that I might reach this moment."

It might be called fate, or perhaps destiny… It was everything Tristan despised and yet everything Arthur believed in.

Two men, different men, and Lancelot finally knew that only one could heal him. He brushed a soft kiss across Arthur's lips and then stepped backwards. "After what happened I turned to Tristan because I thought you would not understand," he admitted.

Arthur's eyes were suddenly very wide. "How could you think-?" He grasped the front of Lancelot's cloak and pulled him forwards in a quick, almost brutal moment. "I have only one regret and that is…"

"No regrets," Lancelot said, his voice barely a whisper in Arthur's ear. He threw his arms around the other knight's neck; his cheek was pressed up against Arthur's stubbled jaw. "I don't regret a thing…Not even what happened with Cynric. It could have broken me – hell knows, it nearly did – but in the end it has only made me stronger." He carefully disentangled himself from Arthur's tight embrace and instead reached out a hand to cup his Lord's cheek. "It opened my eyes."

And then he smiled; smiled as he kissed Arthur tenderly – almost chastely, in fact – and then with growing passion as Arthur parted his lips and then gave a half-guttural groan that Lancelot had never heard before. It was intoxicating, painfully arousing, and suddenly, in what could best be described as a joint effort, Arthur's tunic was on the floor and trampled underfoot.

Lancelot ran his hands across the heated skin now revealed to him, lingering across faint-white scars, tracing the muscle across the lean torso and caressing a nipple on the way, before reaching round to touch the back, the shoulder-blades... all this flesh that now belonged to him.

And Arthur groaned again. "If only I'd known," he said, his words tumbling out in a tone of wonderment. "If I'd known that it would be like this…"

"No regrets," Lancelot repeated. It was the heat of the moment: he loved this man, had to kiss him again; felt the need to hold him, touch him, claim him…

Lancelot froze. His cloak had dropped to the floor and Arthur's hands were working at his tunic; they had in fact already ripped the fabric in a moment of supreme impatience.

"What is it?" Arthur asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

* * *

**Outside, Tristan walked in the woods. He walked until he could walk no more, and then he knelt on the forest floor, amongst the damp leaves, and offered up a pact to whichever gods he believed in.**

**And as everyone knows: an agreement with the gods, once made, cannot be broken.**

* * *

"I'm… Ugly," Lancelot said. 

"Christ," Arthur swore, his voice husky, almost breathy, and all fear of blasphemy quite banished. "You're beautiful. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And to his credit Arthur did not flinch, even as Lancelot pulled off his tunic, revealing a chest marked black, green and purple; swollen in places, scratched in others. "Beautiful," Arthur murmured, knowing that if in that moment Cynric had ben offered to him, his death would have been painful indeed. "Beautiful."

And Arthur stared and Lancelot stared back.The two men were panting: a fine sheen of sweat glistened across the skin of both. And in that second of stillness – for it was only a second – Lancelot realised that life truly is inexorable.

"Heal me," he said.

And Arthur did, reaching out to him with a hand that trembled slightly even as its owner smiled and wore a look that seemed to say _I do not know that I'm doing… But I think – yes, I think – this might just be okay._

Lancelot bit back a moan, swallowed the sound, as Arthur's hand slowly worked on the fastenings of his breeches, before tangling itself in the treasure trail of dark curls leading downwards. And then it was a shock – a good one, though, like a sudden all-encompassing warmth spreading across his body – as Arthur grasped his cock.

"Arthur," Lancelot managed to say. "Arthur…" he repeated it, not as a reprimand but rather in the tone of reverence he'd always reserved for the gods.

And then he moaned, _really moaned_, as Arthur's hand (a hand which possessed the slight roughness of a born soldier) stroked up and down his length. His legs buckled and he nearly fell to the floor; only _nearly _because Arthur's arm was all of a sudden wrapped around his waist, holding him up and supporting him, even as the other hand tried to bring him to his knees.

**Tbc…**


End file.
